


Neither Can the Floods Drown It

by isawsevenbirds



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Actually nobody deserved this, Anxiety Disorder, Blood, Body Horror, Eating disorders mention, Hanahaki AU, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Made-up medical nonsense, Phichit didn't deserve this, This is as sentimental as a bucket of Victorian orphans but oh well, Unapologetic use of British English, Vomiting, also sorry about the many musical references but i am a Useless Lesbian so it can only be expected, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 62,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawsevenbirds/pseuds/isawsevenbirds
Summary: Phichit Chulanont doesn't hate many things. But he hates this sickness, hates the way it turns something as beautiful and vital as love against him.Or, the Hanahaki AU which no-one asked for.





	1. Getting to Know You

As soon as Phichit arrives at the rink, his eye is drawn by the boy in blue. Phichit is early, and the senior skaters are still practising – or at least they are supposed to be. Most of them have already begun to slack off; a few have given up entirely and are leaning against the barrier, laughing at something on one of their phones. But not the boy in blue, who is working on a step sequence out in the middle of the ice. Although the coach is watching him with a smile, the boy doesn’t once look to him for encouragement, nor does he pay any attention to the other skaters. And yet there’s nothing arrogant about the way he carries himself. He’s not showing off, or ignoring the others; so absorbed is he in his step sequence that it’s as if nothing exists for him, in that moment, but himself and the ice.

Then and there, Phichit makes it his mission to emulate the boy in blue.

Perhaps that’s why, when the coach calls an end to the session and the older skaters leave the ice, Phichit finds himself unable to speak to the boy as he slips past. _Next time,_ he promises, annoyed at his own sudden timidity.

As it happens, it’s the other boy who speaks to him first.

Phichit is early to practice again, arriving in time to see him land a beautiful triple axel. It looks beautiful to Phichit, at any rate; but the boy, unsatisfied, repeats it five more times before his coach calls him over. It makes Phichit’s muscles ache just to watch him, and he wonders whether he might have set the bar too high.

While he’s talking to the boy in the blue tracksuit, the coach catches Phichit’s eye, and the boy turns to look in his direction. When the session ends, he skates over to where Phichit is standing. The boy’s face is still set in the mask of total focus that has become familiar to Phichit, but now it is tinged with a kind of grim determination. Phichit can’t work out why until he sees the boy’s hands clenched at his sides, the muscles of his shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his tracksuit.

 _He’s_ nervous? _About speaking to_ me?

Phichit smiles, trying to put both of them at ease; there is a strange, fluttering anxiety in his stomach all of a sudden. He is about to introduce himself when the other boy, not quite meeting his gaze, blurts out, “How are you?”

The English words are smudged together, and it takes a second for Phichit to unpick his meaning, but once he has untangled the threads his grin widens. “Peachy!” Of all the expressions he’s learnt so far, that’s his favourite, and he’s pleased to have had a chance to use it so soon.

But to his dismay, the older boy’s brow furrows in confusion. “Your name … is Peachy?” he asks, handling the sentence with care, like something will break if he gets it wrong.

And then it clicks. Between the other boy’s nervous mispronunciation, the accidental bluntness of the words, and his own unfamiliarity with English, the actual meaning of that first question was lost. Not ‘how’. _Who_.

“Sorry, I misunderstood.” His grin turns sheepish, and he wills the other boy not to think him too much of an idiot. “My name’s Phichit. What’s yours?”

Mortified, the boy stammers something in what Phichit thinks is Japanese, then shakes his head and corrects himself in English. “I’m very sorry. My English is bad,” he says, staring down at the ice as if willing his skates to bore through it and take him away from this conversation.

“Not at all,” Phichit smiles, hoping the boy – who still won’t look at him – can hear the brightness in his voice. “What’s your name?”

“Katsuki Yuuri です. I mean, um, Katsuki Yuuri. It’s… it’s Katsuki Yuuri,” the boy mumbles, ears flushing red. He grips the top of the board fit to tear it out of the floor.

“Nice to meet you!”

Katsuki Yuuri inclines his head, murmuring a reply too quiet for Phichit to hear, and hurries past him towards the lockers.

 _Well, that could’ve gone better_. He’ll have to make it up to him at the next session, somehow.

When he takes his place on the ice, he can’t get the mortified face of the boy in blue out of his head; he’s so distracted he botches jumps he’s been able to land since he was eight. How on earth is he ever going to get Katsuki Yuuri to be his friend after that less-than-stellar first impression – not to mention the fact that Phichit is still a junior, miles behind him in skill?

Somehow, he finds himself turning up to practice earlier and earlier. He pretends it’s so he can learn from the older skaters; while that’s not untrue, there’s one skater in particular whom he watches intently, waiting for a chance to strike up a conversation.

At first, embarrassed by their awkward first encounter, Katsuki Yuuri tries to avoid him; he’ll nod in greeting when Phichit waves to him, and he’ll reply if asked a question, but he makes no move to continue their conversations, and he still won’t look Phichit in the eye. Ordinarily, Phichit would be hurt by the rejection of his attempts at friendship, but it’s obvious the other skater’s intention is not to snub him; he’s simply shy.

But after a few weeks, to Phichit’s joy, that shyness begins to melt away. Katsuki Yuuri starts to wave when Phichit arrives at practice, and although he still doesn’t initiate conversation, he stops to chat during the session changeover instead of rushing off to put his skates away.

One day, when he comes over to join Phichit at the side of the rink, he says, “By the way, you can call me Yuuri.”

He smiles for the first time since they’ve met, and the change in him is so profound that a jolt goes through Phichit’s chest. There’s a sudden lightness to his expression; it’s like watching a tangled kite come free and soar on a breeze he hadn’t even realised was there. Yuuri’s eyes are the warm brown of the soil after rain, and looking into them properly for the first time, Phichit feels as if he’s being let in on some important secret.

Now it’s Phichit’s turn to be embarrassed. He’s been addressing Yuuri by his full name for weeks, unsure what level of formality Japanese custom deems appropriate for two not quite friends. Googling Yuuri’s name didn’t help, although – after several evenings spent trawling the Golden Skate forums – he now knows more about Yuuri’s skating record than he should let on if he doesn’t want to sound like a stalker.

He’s been making an idiot of himself this whole time. He opens his mouth – to laugh it off, to apologise, to say something else, he’s not sure. But he finds himself unusually tongue-tied. Before he can say anything, one of the girls calls out to Yuuri, who turns to go.

Phichit feels a stab of something hot and fierce in his chest, barely assuaged by Yuuri’s cheerful, ‘See you tomorrow, Phichit!’ It isn’t anger – why should he be angry with a girl he hardly knows? Besides, anger has never felt like this before; the bitter taste in his mouth, the burning sensation in his stomach, corrosive, acidic. This girl hasn’t done anything to hurt him, and yet, as the rink empties for the junior session and Yuuri and the girl are still standing on the other side of the ice, deep in conversation, he feels another vicious stab of this emotion he can’t pin down.

Can’t pin it down, that is, until he sees Yuuri laugh at something the girl has just said and clenches his fists without meaning to. _Why does she get to be the one to make him laugh? Why can’t I make him laugh like that?_

That’s when he realises what it is. He’s _jealous_.

He doesn’t understand why – not today, nor at the next practice, when Yuuri is so busy talking to the girl during the break (the two of them standing so close together that they’re almost touching) that Phichit doesn’t even get a look-in. Phichit has friends amongst the skaters in his own group; why shouldn’t the same be true of Yuuri? Why can’t he just be happy that someone as shy as Yuuri has made other friends besides him?

Glancing over at Yuuri now, he can still see that shyness in the way he rubs the back of his neck as he talks, the way his eyes keep darting away from the girl.

The girl, meanwhile, is looking at Yuuri with a kind of tenderness on her face that causes Phichit’s heart to thud in his chest. _Oh. I get it_. Whoever this girl is, either she and Yuuri are more than friends, or they’re headed that way.

He still doesn’t know why that would make him jealous, why there’s a tug in his chest every time the girl’s hand brushes against Yuuri’s arm, every time Yuuri returns her smile.

The following day, he is surprised but happy when Yuuri makes a beeline straight for him as soon as Coach Celestino calls an end to the session. “Hey, Phichit. Sorry we didn’t get to talk yesterday. How are you doing?”

Such a simple question, but Phichit is walking on air. He can’t believe how quickly he’s gone from admiring Yuuri from afar to being treated as his equal. “Peachy,” he grins.

Yuuri looks confused for a second, and Phichit is afraid he’s put his foot in it again until Yuuri smiles. His English, like Phichit’s, has improved a lot since their first meeting. _I bet he’s learning from her – and not just English,_ he thinks with a savageness that startles him.

Perhaps this strange, unreasonable jealousy will disappear once he figures out exactly what this girl means to Yuuri. “So,” he says, trying to be casual, “you’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain someone.” His eyes darting from Yuuri to the person in question and back again, he forces a conspiratorial smirk, even as the sourness in his stomach begins to burn.

Taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Yuuri glances at Phichit for a moment before his gaze shifts to where the girl is standing, chatting to some of her other rinkmates for once.

_Uh-oh. He knew who I meant without asking._

Yuuri smiles, and it’s a little guarded, a little apprehensive, but it’s enough for Phichit’s stomach to plummet through the bottom of his skates. “Oh, you mean Helga? Yeah, I guess – I guess I have.”

He’s not sure whether it’s worse or better to have a name to attach to the jealousy intent on boring a permanent hole in his chest; when he’s lying awake for the tenth night running, it won’t make much difference whether the spear twisting through his ribs belongs to ‘Helga’ or just ‘that girl Yuuri likes’.

He swallows. _All right. Million-dollar question_. “Are you guys together?”

Confusion etches a tiny dent between Yuuri’s eyebrows.

“Dating,” Phichit clarifies. “Are you two dating?”

“What?” Yuuri blinks. “No! No, we’re not.”

Not the answer Phichit was expecting, and hope flickers in his chest before he crushes the flame into nothingness. Yuuri is protecting his privacy, that’s all. Phichit knows he shouldn’t press him, knows he should leave it – for his own sake as well as Yuuri’s – but he can’t help plunging on.

“She likes you, though.”

“You think so?”

Was that hope he heard, or just surprise? Or is Yuuri still pretending? Ignoring the jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach, he fakes a laugh. “You need to get yourself some better glasses, Yuuri. She’s not subtle.”

Yuuri blushes, and Phichit finds himself fascinated with the way Yuuri’s cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, flush pink against the golden undertones of his skin. He wonders whether Yuuri’s skin is as soft as it looks. How it would feel to brush his fingers over that skin, hot to the touch. How it would feel –

“Phichit?”

He starts at the sound of Yuuri’s voice. “Do you like her?” he bursts out, trying to clear his head. _What the hell was that?_

“Helga?”

Yuuri is looking at him strangely, and Phichit scrabbles for a way to deflect Yuuri’s attention until his thoughts have settled. “No, Yuuri, the Queen of England.” He grins, hoping that it looks natural. “Of course I’m talking about Helga.”

“I mean, I suppose I like her –”

Another twist of the spear, and Phichit can feel his grin slipping, although he still doesn’t understand why.

“– but not like that! She’s my friend, that’s all.” There’s nothing evasive in Yuuri’s expression, just embarrassed honesty, and Phichit knows Yuuri is telling the truth.

He has no explanation for the relief that washes through him, a welcome salve to the burning pain of jealousy.

…

That explanation comes to him some weeks later, during morning practice. Although Phichit hasn’t yet taken his senior test, he’s progressing a lot faster than the other juniors, and Celestino is allowing him to join in with senior practices for a trial period.

“I know it’s unusual. But it’ll be good for you to see what you’ll be up against once you make your senior debut. Besides, you’re always here so early, it seems a shame to waste good ice time. And,” he continues, with a fond glance at Yuuri, who is over at the boards stretching, “Yuuri’s been a lot more relaxed with you around. I think this will help you both.”

This particular morning, Yuuri has not arrived by the time the session starts, and Phichit finds himself out of sorts, unable to concentrate on the steps he’s supposed to be practising. He can’t put his finger on what’s wrong; everything feels off, stale, dull as the ice at the end of a session. He can’t muster any enthusiasm for practice, and it shows. Celestino even asks if everything is okay, fretting that Phichit is struggling to keep up, but Phichit knows that’s not it. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?” But that’s not it either. Phichit’s never known an illness that can drain the colour out of everything around him like this.

Then the door at the back of the rink clatters open, and a voice calls out, “Sorry I’m late!” It’s Yuuri, his cheeks flushed from running, his hair dishevelled as if he’s only just rolled out of bed.

It’s like the rink has been in darkness this whole time, and Yuuri’s arrival has thrown the lights on. The uneasiness that’s been plaguing Phichit disappears, replaced by a giddy lightness that only intensifies as Yuuri pulls on his skates and joins the rest of the group on the ice.

As Yuuri skates over, Phichit realises why he’s been so eager to spend time with him. Why he can’t take his eyes off Yuuri when he’s skating, or even just standing there like he is now, a sheepish grin on his face as he half-yawns, half-whispers to Phichit, “Guess who overslept again.”

The world falls apart and comes back together, irrevocably altered, in the space of that moment. He’s shocked that no-one else seems to have noticed this seismic shift. Celestino greets Yuuri with a wry, “Good evening,” and when Yuuri looks back at him in sleepy confusion, Phichit has to ignore his racing heart and his racing thoughts for long enough to lean over and whisper, “It’s a joke, Yuuri. Because you’re late.” He finds himself relieved when Yuuri, after flashing him a quick, radiant smile of thanks, looks away. Relieved, and at the same time torn, because he’s pretty sure he could look into Yuuri’s eyes forever.

When he left Bangkok for Detroit – it feels like a lifetime ago now, although it’s only been a matter of months – he knew things wouldn’t be easy. Knew there would be obstacles in his path, hurdles, distractions.

He didn’t imagine that any of those distractions would be as wonderful as Katsuki Yuuri.

…

Before long, Celestino suggests the two of them room together. Phichit’s homestay is coming to an end, and Yuuri is currently living by himself in a flat meant for two people, his intended roommate having dropped out before the start of the year. “He’s never going to bring it up himself, but he’s lonely,” Celestino confides. “What do you think?”

The plan fills Phichit half with excitement, half with dread. It is difficult enough hiding his feelings for the few hours a day they spend together on the ice; difficult enough to tear his eyes away from Yuuri long enough to focus on his own skating, difficult enough to stop himself from crashing into the boards while he looks over his shoulder to watch Yuuri pull off a jump Phichit can still only dream of landing. How will he keep Yuuri from noticing if they’re actually living together?

Hiding things from Yuuri, it turns out, isn’t difficult. To Phichit, his feelings for Yuuri are vast, unwieldy things, wedging themselves into every gap between the two of them and casting a shadow over every conversation; to Yuuri, apparently, they are invisible. Yuuri remains thankfully, laughingly, frustratingly oblivious, in thrall to a distraction of his own. Their third roommate, Victor Nikiforov.

Of course, the former junior world champion isn’t actually living in their student flat in Detroit, but he might as well be; his cold, handsome face stares down at Phichit from every wall. There’s even a poster of him in the bathroom, secured to the damp wall with copious amounts of masking tape.

“Do you mind?” Yuuri asks, the first time Phichit walks in and realises the room is essentially wallpapered with Victor’s face. “I can take them – some of them – down if you want.”

That delicious defiant note in Yuuri’s voice does funny things to Phichit’s brain. His stomach. His legs. This side of Yuuri is different from the one he already knows, the shy, serious warmth of the boy in blue. He glows at the thought of how much he has yet to learn about Yuuri.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” he says, trying not to let on that his insides are turning to honey. How could he object to something that brings Yuuri happiness? It’s not as if he needs the space, anyway – he can’t exactly go around putting up posters of his own favourite skater. (He makes a mental note to check whether Yuuri is famous enough to have posters made of him yet. Not that he’s obsessed enough to buy one.)

But as the days go on, he finds he does mind, more than he wants to. Just when he’s no longer fighting the unjustified urge to glare at Helga every time she so much as speaks to Yuuri, he finds himself faced with a new source of jealousy, a new enemy that, this time, he can never hope to beat. He could swear Victor’s picture-perfect smile grows a little more smug every time he glances at any of the posters. It makes him want to rip them off the wall, every last one of them, because he knows that next to Russia’s sweetheart Victor Nikiforov he is nothing, nothing but a stupid boy with a stupid crush.

He doesn’t touch the posters, of course. They mean too much to Yuuri.

…

When he asks whether Yuuri has a crush on Victor, Yuuri hotly denies it.

“No! I respect him as a competitor –”

“– but I bet you also respect how good his ass looks in that costume,” Phichit says, grinning wickedly as he inclines his head at one of the posters.

There’s a flash of understanding in Yuuri’s eyes, a moment of _oh, so you like guys too_ , and his face becomes a little brighter, a little less guarded. Phichit almost says something, almost lets himself wonder whether he might have a chance after all. But he sees the look in Yuuri’s eyes as his gaze flickers to the poster in question.

“That was _definitely_ a yes, c’mon.”

Victor does look very good in that particular photo, in a hard, sculpted way that does nothing for Phichit. He can see why Yuuri finds him attractive, but privately he thinks that Victor, for all his icy beauty, has nothing on the softness and warmth of Yuuri himself.

When Yuuri still won’t admit it, he sighs. “Yuuri,” he teases gently, “you have his face plastered across every inch of the walls. You imitate his routines in practice, even though we haven’t learnt half of the jumps he can land. Your dog’s named after him. You talk about him all the time –”

“I do not!”

“Oh?” Smirking, Phichit pulls out his phone. “According to my ‘times that Yuuri has mentioned Victor Nikiforov’ chart – which could do with a snappier name, I know – you’ve said his name seventeen times today already.”

Yuuri grabs the phone, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees the screen. “You have _graphs_ of this? I didn’t know you were so obsessed with me, Phichit. I’m flattered.”

Yuuri’s words, far too close to the truth, send a chill through Phichit’s stomach. Not wanting Yuuri to notice anything amiss, Phichit sticks his tongue out and snatches his phone back. “For your information, I’m failing Stats and it’s a good way of practising graphs, you egomaniac.” The last word he would choose to describe Yuuri. “It’s you who’s obsessed, that or in love, admit it. No-one has this many posters of someone they _respect as a competitor_.”

“I don’t think you can be in love with someone you’ve never met.”

“You might as well have met him, I mean, you’ve watched all his interviews. Including the ones in Russian. And you don’t even speak Russian,” Phichit grins. “Wait, or do you?”

But Yuuri isn’t smiling. There’s an unexpected gravity to his voice as he says, ignoring Phichit’s comment, “Love isn’t a word you should use lightly.”

 _Where is this coming from all of a sudden?_ He’s afraid he’s hit a nerve, touched on something painful in Yuuri’s past, and he isn’t sure whether to apologise or stay silent.

Then Yuuri smiles sheepishly, his seriousness gone like a cloud lifting. “I suppose I do…like him more than it’s normal to like one of your rivals, though.”

It’s only a confirmation of what Phichit already knew, but it still hurts to hear Yuuri say it out loud. _You win, Victor_ , he thinks bitterly.

…

It’s not only Victor that makes living with Yuuri as difficult as it is delightful. His own brain conspires against him, turning the days into an exhausting dance around his true feelings and the nights into either a sleepless wasteland or a dangerous release. There are dreams that make him cringe to remember them in the light of day, mornings when he wakes up with Yuuri’s name on his lips and a stickiness on his sheets and has to run to the laundry room before Yuuri wakes up. It’s a good thing Yuuri is a heavy sleeper, and never wakes up to ask why Phichit is doing laundry at 4AM.

…

“I feel like I could fight a shark.” Phichit bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, his body still fizzing with energy from morning practice. “Or eat one. I’m ravishing.”

Already stretched out on the couch, Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so maybe that’s an exaggeration. Half a shark, then. A baby shark. Wait, no, that’s horrible –”

“I’m not questioning your appetite,” Yuuri laughs. “I’ve seen you demolish the Tipsy Tower burger challenge and still order dessert. But I think you meant ‘ravenous’.”

Phichit opens his dictionary app with a frown, and his face grows hot; Yuuri is, as usual, right. He brushes off the embarrassment with a mock-indignant, “What, you don’t think I’m ‘unusually attractive, pleasing, or striking’?”

“You’re certainly the most attractive roommate I’ve ever had.”

For one delicious moment, Phichit’s heart soars. But it comes crashing down when he sees the mischief in Yuuri’s grin. “The only roommate you’ve ever had, more like.” It’s meant to sound light-hearted, but he can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Yuuri’s grin disappears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I didn’t realise you were worried about how you look,” he says, stricken. “You’ve always seemed so confident, I thought – I didn’t want to hurt your feelings – I was only… I shouldn’t have joked about it. I’m sorry.”

“Nonono, it’s fine!” Squashing down the disappointment inside him, he offers Yuuri a quick smile. “If you think I’m insecure about my appearance, you clearly haven’t seen my Instagram.”

“That might be because I don’t actually have Instagram,” Yuuri admits, relaxing slightly.

“What? But how do you interact with your fans?”

“I don’t have fans,” Yuuri says, bemused.

Phichit studies him for a second, and realises Yuuri isn’t being modest – he really has no idea. _Oh my God. What planet is this boy living on?_ He reaches over the back of the sofa. “Gimme your phone, Yuuri.”

“Why?”

“One: so we can get you on Instagram. Two: so I can show you that you do, in fact, have fans. A lot of them.”

He makes a grab for Yuuri’s phone, but Yuuri slips it out of his pocket and holds it out of reach. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Phichit feigns innocence, caught between pleasure that Yuuri has noticed something amiss and terror that, under Yuuri’s caring gaze, he might spill the secret that will wreck everything.

“Something’s bothering you.”

He ignores the twinge in his chest, the urge to be honest, and reaches for a plausible excuse. “Oh, I get kinda moody when I’m hungry, that’s all.” More of a half-truth than an outright lie, but the deception still causes guilt to prick at him.

Yuuri grins, and it’s such a welcome sight that Phichit finds himself grinning back in spite of himself as Yuuri says, “In that case, Instagram can wait. We need to find you something to eat before you get yourself banned from the aquarium.”

…

“Phichit?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you have a fake ID?”

 _Crap_. He’s been looking for that for days in the mess of midterm prep covering his side of the room; it’s not as if he could have asked Yuuri to help him search. _Hey, Yuuri, you haven’t seen my fake ID, have you?_

But now Yuuri has found it anyway, and he’s holding it up, squinting at the photo of Phichit’s brother.

From his bed, Phichit makes a grab for it, and misses wildly. “Gimme that. It’s totally legit.”

Yuuri looks at him with one eyebrow elegantly arched in a way that is utterly ruinous to Phichit’s composure. “Right. Because your name is Somchai Chulanont and you’re…” Checking the date on the card, he frowns. “Twenty? What good is a fake ID that only claims you’re twenty?”

“I wasn’t planning on using it to get drunk. Unlike some people,” Phichit grins.

Yuuri flushes a violent red, and while he’s distracted, Phichit jumps to his feet and snatches the ID card. _That wasn’t exactly fair. He’s probably embarrassed about the whole drink-dancing thing._

But Yuuri doesn’t seem particularly upset. Recovering, he turns to Phichit with a sly grin. “I do _not_ get drunk. You’re just jealous because I’m a better dancer than you.”

“Oh please, Katsuki, I could wipe the floor with you any day of the week. Drunk _or_ sober.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“You bet it is.”

Yuuri’s grin spreads, catlike, across his face as he grabs the well-used copy of DDR off the games shelf and kicks away the clutter in front of the PlayStation. “You’re on.”

…

Hours later, sweaty and exhausted and out of breath, they collapse next to each other on the sofa. “Guess… we’ll have to… call that… a draw,” Yuuri pants.

“You tripped me! I win… by default, you cheater.”

“…was an accident,” Yuuri protests, grinning.

Phichit isn’t sure about that – he’s beginning to recognise Yuuri’s fierce competitive streak. But all he can manage to say is, “Whatever.”

They fall into a companionable silence broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing. In the stillness, Phichit is suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of Yuuri’s head on his shoulder, the scent of Yuuri’s skin. This is the closest they’ve ever been; Yuuri isn’t good with closeness, and he often flinches away from a well-meant touch, an unsolicited hug. But there’s no tension in Yuuri’s body now.

It’s Phichit who is tense. His breathing is too loud, his pulse so strong he’s sure Yuuri can feel it. That he knows. He catches poster-Victor’s eye from across the room and is suddenly ashamed of the state of his hair, the sweat soaking through his clothes, the way he is in every way less than Yuuri’s flawless, unchanging idol – and more importantly, less than Yuuri. Gangly still where Yuuri is already lean and muscular, clumsy while Yuuri is graceful, baby-faced and childish in the shadow of Yuuri’s maturity.

Under Victor’s mocking gaze, Phichit’s dizzy joy at Yuuri’s proximity, his trust, turns sour. Yuuri is the kindest, sweetest person Phichit has ever met, but how could he do anything but laugh at the idea of someone like Phichit, just a kid compared to Yuuri, daring to have feelings for him? For the first time since leaving Bangkok, Phichit is homesick. He wants to hear his mother’s laughter, to help his father out in the florist’s, to play football and argue with Somchai and not have to deal with this mess of feelings any more.

“Phichit? You okay?”

Warmth floods through him at the concern in Yuuri’s voice. “Just thinking about home.”

Yuuri squeezes his shoulder gently, and Phichit’s stomach does a backflip. “Missing your family?”

He realises it’s okay to admit that yes, he does miss them. The friends he’s left behind. The heat and bustle and familiarity of Bangkok. He nods. “A bit, yeah. No. A lot, actually.” Although, in truth, the sharpness of that sudden pang of homesickness is already fading a little. Bangkok might be far away, but close at hand he has Yuuri, Yuuri who cares about him enough to pull him into a hug and say, “I miss mine, too.”

It’s the first time Yuuri has hugged him, and he hadn’t realised that something so simple and honest as Yuuri’s touch could make his body sing like this. Perhaps waiting out this crush, painful as it might sometimes be, isn’t going to be as bad as he thought.

It occurs to him that he knows next to nothing about Yuuri’s family, apart from Vicchan and the fact that his parents run an onsen. Yuuri has been quite happy to let Phichit chatter on about his home life, but he’s been remarkably tight-lipped about his own.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Phichit asks, and then laughs. “Wow. I sound like something out of an English textbook.”

“Yes. I have one older sister. Her name is Mari. She has short blonde hair and she is very cool,” Yuuri deadpans, and then pulls out his phone with a smile. “Wait, let me show you.”

Phichit pretends not to notice that Yuuri’s background is yet another photo of Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri scrolls through his photos until he finds the one he’s looking for and holds the phone out so Phichit can see. “That’s her on the right.”

There are three people in the photo, standing in front of the onsen guesthouse. Mari – who does indeed have short blonde hair, dyed and spiky and held back from her face with a navy headband – has one arm around a plump, smiling woman with glasses, and her other hand is resting on the head of a large poodle.

“Hey, Vicchan.” This is the first photo he’s seen of Yuuri’s family, and approximately the hundred and twelfth of his dog. “Still can’t believe you named him after Victor. How’re you gonna explain that when you finally meet him?”

Yuuri flushes, and, instead of answering, turns his attention to the ID card sitting on the table. “Is this your brother?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“He looks a lot like you. Except… angrier.”

Phichit laughs. It’s a stolen passport photo of Somchai, who was in a foul mood on the day of the picture. “Yeah, he’s kind of – how d’you say it? Oh yeah, camera-shy.”

“Nothing like you, then.”

“Nah, we’re not much alike.” He holds up his phone. “Speaking of being camera-shy… _Pepsi!_ ” And he snaps the picture before Yuuri can protest.

Yuuri frowns, but not at having his picture taken. “What did you just say?”

“ _Pepsi?_ As in, what you say to get someone to smile for a photo?” He laughs at Yuuri’s confused expression. “Guess that’s a Thai thing, huh. Anyway, we still have to get you on Instagram, Yuuri.”

“But why? I don’t take that many photos.”

“So you can follow me, obviously. And see all the photos I’m posting of you.”

Yuuri looks horrified. “What?”

“Relax, Yuuri, I’m kidding. Although…” He checks the photo he’s just taken, and nods approvingly. “That one’s going on Instagram, definitely. You look _good_. And not just because of my excellent camera skills.”

He freezes, afraid he’s gone too far, but Yuuri’s blushing, and there’s the hint of a smile as he sighs theatrically, “I suppose I can’t really stop you.”

So Yuuri likes to be complimented. He stores that knowledge away for future use.

“Why do you take so many photos, anyway?”

He scrambles for something less melodramatic than _I want to capture every moment I spend with you, Yuuri._ “I wanna remember everything.”

Yuuri smiles fondly as he toys with the ID card. “Anyway, Phichit, what is it you need a fake ID for?”

Phichit sighs. Yuuri’s tenacity is admirable, but occasionally inconvenient. He’d rather not lie. “PetSmart doesn’t let you buy animals until you’re 18.”

“You know we’re not legally allowed to keep pets in this flat, right?”

“You’re not legally allowed to drink yet, either, but that didn’t stop you doing shots and outdancing everyone at the Hallowe’en party.”

“How do you…” Yuuri’s eyes widen in realisation, and he groans. “Ketty told you, didn’t she.” He puts his face in his hands. “I’m going to _kill_ that woman,” he says, muffled. “Why did I have to become friends with the two biggest gossip machines in Detroit?”

“Actually, K had nothing to do with it this time.” Ketty – Yuuri’s friend from the local conservatoire – would be delighted by Yuuri’s exploits, but he hasn’t shared them with her. He doubts Yuuri would appreciate it if he did.

“Then how…” His eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me you were _there?_ ”

“Great thing about a full-body skeleton costume is no-one knows who’s inside it. Everyone sort of assumes someone else invited you.”

“That was _you?_ ” Yuuri’s lips curve up in a sly grin. “I _knew_ they were too short, even for a freshman.”

“Hey!” Phichit pokes Yuuri in the stomach. “You’re not even that much taller than me. And you’re definitely too short for Victor. I mean, he’d have to lean down to kiss you every time, and that’s probably really really bad for your back. You’d be the end of his career.”

“ _Back on the subject of your ID_ ,” Yuuri says, cheeks an interesting shade of pink, “this is never going to work.”

“Why?”

Yuuri gestures at Somchai’s glowering face. “This obviously isn’t you. You’re far too happy.”

Radiant with Yuuri’s affection, Phichit grins, “I could look angry if I needed to.”

“What are you going to do, march in and yell, ‘Your hamsters or your life’?”

“I was thinking of gerbils, actually. Or a chinchilla.” But now that Yuuri’s suggested hamsters, they sound like a much better idea. He doesn’t know why he’s never noticed it before, but hamsters – with their round fat cheeks and stumpy tails and beady eyes – are far cuter than gerbils.

“You know,” Yuuri says slowly, “if we were careful, no-one would notice. If it was hamsters and not a cat or something.”

“But without an ID…”

“You only need an ID if you’re under eighteen. And only one of us is under eighteen.”

“Yuuri, are you saying that –”

“I’m saying that I know what you’re like, and I know you’re going to try it anyway, and I don’t want you getting banned from PetSmart for illicit underage hamster-buying. I’m supposed to be looking out for you, after all.”

He throws his arms around Yuuri. “Oh my God, Yuuri, you’re the best.” Then he stops, and draws back, his eyes narrowing. “What are you planning? There’s some stupid condition to this, isn’t there, like, I dunno, I have to call it Victor or something…”

Yuuri laughs. “I’m not _quite_ obsessed enough to start naming other people’s pets after him. Nope, no conditions.”

Phichit flings his arms around Yuuri’s neck again with an undignified but irrepressible squeal of happiness. And as Yuuri, laughing, puts his arms around Phichit too, Phichit wonders – not for the first time – how he got so lucky.

…

The day he and Yuuri and Ketty go to buy a hamster, Phichit can barely contain his excitement; he’s practically hopping with it as they wander up and down the aisles, selecting everything a hamster will need. Yuuri has to talk him out of buying the most expensive cage, which would take up half their floorspace and seems to contain some sort of hamster theme park. “Remember, we have to be able to get everything into the flat without drawing any attention to ourselves. I’m not even sure that would fit in Ketty’s car.”

Pouting, Phichit settles on one of the smaller, cheaper cages.

When it comes to choosing a hamster, he doesn’t hesitate. Three does from the same litter are curled up together in one corner of the enclosure – one with orange markings, one with grey, and one brown. “I’m taking all of them,” he declares. “I’m not splitting up a family.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest, and Ketty laughs. “Face it, you’re not gonna talk him out of this one.”

Yuuri sighs, and heads off to find a shop assistant.

As Phichit crouches down by the enclosure, cooing over the three sleeping hamsters, Ketty asks, “How’d you convince Yuuri to go along with this mad scheme, anyway?”

“He was the one who offered to take me to buy a hamster in the first place.”

“Wow,” Ketty chuckles. “You guys must be pretty close, if he’s going out on a limb for you like this.”

 _Pretty close._ There’s a twinge of pain in Phichit’s chest at the words. He and Yuuri could barely be closer; by now, he is more attuned to Yuuri’s needs and wants than he is to his own. He has seen Yuuri at his lowest, undone by terror, and knows how to keep his head above water until the storm passes. And he has seen Yuuri at his magnificent, radiant best. He knows how to bring out that radiance, how to soothe the tension in his body with a well-placed touch that stops just shy of the invisible line between platonic and romantic. But that is where the closeness stops, and he knows there will never be anything else, that it would be unfair even to ask that of Yuuri.

“He’s my best friend.” He tries to keep his voice bright, buoyant, but he can’t help thinking of Helga. _She’s my friend, that’s all_.

Ketty casts a sidelong glance at him. “Hey, what’s up?”

He shakes his head, forcing a smile, but it’s too late.

“P, there’s obviously something the matter. What’s going on?” She puts a hand on his arm, gently pulls him to his feet. “Did you guys…” She pauses. “No, there’s no way you two’ve fallen out, or he wouldn’t be here buying you hamsters.”

Phichit glances at Yuuri’s retreating form just as Yuuri turns to speak to a nearby staff member. His profile is framed for a second against the glass door of the shop, and Phichit’s knees go weak at the sight of him, the ink and brush outline of his hair against his collar, the soft curve of his face, his dancer’s bearing. The pang of longing that wells in his chest is almost too much for him to hold, and, arms crossed, he hugs his elbows to him like it’s the only way to keep his heart from spilling out.

Ketty is still watching him carefully, and when Yuuri disappears into another aisle and he turns back, reluctantly, to face her, she asks him seriously, “Do you have feelings for him?”

Heart in his mouth, he fixes her with his fiercest glare. “If you dare tell him –”

She smiles, and he realises too late that was the opposite of a denial.

“You can count on me,” she says, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

He’s going to have to do better at hiding his feelings for Yuuri, or it’ll be all over campus.

“You really lucked out, living with him and everything,” Ketty continues. “You know Helga, that ridiculously gorgeous blonde girl he’s rinkmates with? I see her around sometimes – she’s friends with someone in my composition class, I’ve been trying to get them or Yuuri to introduce me for ages – but I haven’t even spoken to her yet. Whereas you get to spend all your time with him…” 

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Phichit says, with a commiserating look. “She’s pretty into Yuuri.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Ketty huffs. “But Yuuri’s not interested in her, right? So you’ve got a chance.”

He sighs. “Yeah, a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“He likes someone else?” Ketty asks, shooting him a sympathetic glance.

“He has Victor Nikiforov on the brain, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Ketty smothers her laugh when she sees his glum expression. “I wasn’t really counting that. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a celebrity crush?”

“Not until now,” he mumbles.

“But Yuuri’s not quite on the same level as Victor, is he –”

“Yes he is!”

A dark-haired woman leading a small child by the hand turns to glare at him, and he realises he’s said it much more loudly than he intended.

“He’ll beat Victor one day. And I’m gonna be there too,” he continues, quietly but firmly. “Yuuri’s _amazing_. You know that, you’ve seen him skate.”

Ketty smiles indulgently, and he’s afraid she’s just humouring him, that she doesn’t really believe it. “You’ve got it bad, huh?”

“I swear, K, that boy is going to be the death of me.”

She laughs and ruffles his hair like she’s forty years older than him instead of four. “Ah, young love…”

“It’s not _love_ ,” he protests. “It’s just a crush.” It’s not ‘just’ anything; it’s his every breath, his every waking moment and more than a few of his dreaming ones. And crushes are supposed to fade with time, but he can’t imagine this ever fading, not when every time Yuuri so much as smiles it’s like fireworks in his chest. But the thought of it being anything more than a crush is too overwhelming.

“Whatever you say, Phichit.”

He’s saved from having to reply by the reappearance of Yuuri, shop assistant in tow, and the pang in his chest is swamped by excitement as the young woman transfers the hamsters to a carry case and rings up their purchases.

When everything else is loaded into Ketty’s car, Yuuri hands the case to Phichit with a grin. “I believe these belong to you.”

…

“What are you going to call them?” Yuuri asks later, looking up from his essay.

Phichit pauses. The grey hamster is nestled in his hair; the orange and the brown are running happily up and down his arm. Carefully, so as not to dislodge them, he shrugs. “They deserve the right names, and I haven’t found them yet.”

Yuuri laughs the soft laugh that turns Phichit’s insides to mush. “That’s a very… Phichit thing for you to say.”

“Who else am I supposed to sound like?” He catches poster-Victor’s eye, and for the first time he doesn’t feel a stab of jealousy. He’s not Victor and he never will be, and maybe that’s okay.

Yuuri laughs again, that magic sound, and he wishes he could stay in this moment forever, with the pain of longing outweighed by the warmth of Yuuri’s smile. But Yuuri looks away again, as he always does, and the longing takes him in its claws and drags him down towards despair.

 _It’s just a crush_ , he thinks crossly. _Anyone would think you were dying_. But the claws won’t listen to reason, and it’s only very slowly, as he methodically strokes the soft fur of the grey hamster, that the ache in his chest begins to abate.

…

The better Yuuri’s season goes – and this one has been going exceptionally well – the more nervous Yuuri becomes, despite Phichit’s best efforts to distract him. Even when he’s not on the ice, Phichit can see him running through his routine in his head, his body moving with a rhythm that is imperceptible to anyone else but that Phichit recognises instantly. He carries himself as if he’s balancing on blades, as if he doesn’t quite trust the world not to slip from under him. Yuuri has always been graceful, but now there is a concentrated beauty to his movements; everything is a dance, precise and perfect. Phichit is just as mesmerised watching him walk across campus or the floor of their flat as he is watching him skate.

He finds himself spending more time watching Yuuri than talking to him as the Four Continents – at which Yuuri has a good chance of a medal – grows closer. In those rare moments when he’s not practising, Yuuri tends to put in his headphones and close himself off to the rest of the world, Phichit included.

He’d love to know what it is Yuuri is listening to; every scrap of information about Yuuri’s life, everything that gives him a fuller picture of who Yuuri is, is a treasure to Phichit, and somehow – even after they’ve lived together for this long – the subject of their music tastes has never really come up. Or rather, the question of Yuuri’s tastes hasn’t. Unlike Phichit, Yuuri isn’t given to bursting into song around the flat. Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind it, but, at the same time, Phichit doubts that Yuuri is listening to the soundtrack from _The Lion King 2_ to keep himself focused.

So when he gets back from class one evening to find Yuuri already hunkered down over his laptop, headphones in, hard at work on one essay or another, he decides to find out.

Moving round to where Yuuri can see him – having learnt the hard way that Yuuri does not react well to being spooked – he taps him on the arm.

Slipping off his headphones, Yuuri looks up with a distracted smile. “Oh, hey. Didn’t hear you come in. How was class?”

“The usual,” he grins back. Now isn’t the best time to launch into a detailed account of the day; Yuuri is drumming absentmindedly on the keyboard, and his eyes keep wandering back to the screen. “By the way, you don’t have to have headphones on if you wanna listen to music.”

“You sure? I don’t want to disturb you…”

“Nah, it’s fine, be my guest.”

“Well, okay, then.” Still looking unsure, Yuuri fiddles with the volume and unplugs his headphones.

The music is so quiet Phichit can barely hear it. He laughs. “Seriously, Yuuri, it won’t bother me. You can have it louder than that.”

Yuuri turns the sound up slightly, but it’s still almost inaudible. Phichit leans over – trying not to get distracted by the scent of Yuuri’s hair, the warmth of Yuuri’s breath on his cheek – and drags the volume bar as far as it will go.

They both wince as the beat comes thundering out of the speakers, and Phichit hurriedly adjusts the volume so they are no longer being deafened by what sounds suspiciously like rap.

Whatever Phichit was expecting, it wasn’t this.

The lyrics are too fast for him to follow, but as his ears become attuned to the rhythms, he begins to pick up bits and pieces. The first time he hears the name George Washington, he assumes he must have misheard. Then, one track later, there’s an unmistakeable reference to Thomas Jefferson.

He taps Yuuri on the shoulder. “Last time I checked, you were a Lit major. Didn’t know you were so interested in American politics, Yuuri.”

“Oh, I can turn it off if you don’t like it.” The cursor’s already hovering over the volume bar, but Yuuri’s voice is tinged with disappointment.

“No, I wanna hear it, it’s just not what I was expecting!”

Yuuri’s expression clears. “Let me start it from the beginning. It won’t make much sense otherwise.”

“Is it a concept album or something?”

“A musical, actually.” Yuuri laughs as Phichit perks up. “I thought that might pique your interest.”

“A rap musical.”

“Yep.”

“About the Founding Fathers.”

“Yep.”

“This I _have_ to hear.”

Clicking on the first track, Yuuri returns to his essay.

And for the next two and a half hours, Phichit lies on his bed and listens. It’s nothing like any musical he’s heard before – and he’s heard most of them. Although it’s too fast for him to catch most of the lyrics on the first listen, the music alone makes him feel like he can do anything. But he needs to know the full story, and so, after Yuuri has gone to bed, Phichit looks it up – Googling ‘Founding Fathers rap musical’ because Yuuri forgot to tell him anything so useful as the title – and listens to it through a second time, this time with the lyrics.

He doesn’t make it to the end of the first act before he breaks down.

He shakes Yuuri awake at 3AM, tears streaming down his face, and Yuuri looks at him in alarm. “Phichit? What’s wrong?”

“I figured out what I’m going to call the hamsters, Yuuri!”

“ _That’s_ what you woke me up for? Why are you crying?” He squints at Phichit’s phone, bright in the darkness of the room. “Hamilton, huh? Figures.” He yawns. “What are you going to call them, then? This had better be worth it, Chulanont.”

Phichit grins. “Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy. The Schuyler hamsters.”

Yuuri throws a pillow at him.

…

Winter turns to spring and spring to summer, and they swap their cosy library sessions for long afternoons stretched out on the grass, basking in the warmth and light that has been a long time coming. There is Yuuri’s presence to bask in, too; the best days are the ones when Yuuri lies down with his head resting on Phichit’s stomach and reads to him from that week’s text, the gentle murmur of his voice sparking through Phichit’s body. Although Phichit is the musical theatre major, it turns out Katsuki Yuuri is quite the actor when he wants to be. Phichit lets him know this at every opportunity, and watches the blush of pleasure spread over Yuuri’s face, feels the answering pang in his own stomach.

One day, instead of pulling out his Literary Criticism textbook or a Dickens novel, Yuuri flops down at Phichit’s side and says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, but I was wondering… Would you mind teaching me some basic Thai?”

Phichit nearly bursts with happiness.

By this point, both of them are almost fluent in English, and besides, Phichit is increasingly finding he can understand Yuuri without words. (The language of Katsuki Yuuri – his expressions and the subtle movements of his body and the things he leaves unsaid – is a fascinating one, full of nuance and unexpected meanings, and he hopes to make a lifetime study of it.) Yuuri isn’t asking out of necessity; he is asking because he wants to share in more of Phichit’s life, and that knowledge makes him want to float up into the sky with joy.

He feels a flicker of triumph – he knows Yuuri has yet to learn any Russian – but snuffs it out before it can grow into something uglier. He doesn’t want to mar this barely-hoped-for moment with petty point-scoring.

Tempted as he is to begin by teaching Yuuri how to swear in Thai, he decides instead to start with the fundamentals – hello, goodbye, thank you, the usual beginner phrases. It takes Yuuri a long time to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar sounds, and he keeps stumbling, pitching the tones shakily, like someone picking up an instrument for the first time. But hearing the colours of Yuuri’s voice shift as he repeats the words makes his heart clench with something stronger than adoration, something more deeply rooted than a crush. Something that might take much, much longer to die away, if it does at all.

“How am I doing?” Yuuri asks, hesitant, hopeful.

“Amazingly. Fantastically. The best.” The same pride that fills his voice lights up Yuuri’s dark eyes, and a smile carves a bright swathe across Yuuri’s lovely face.

“ _Rak teu_ ,” he adds. He’s not ready to say it in English yet, not even sure if it’s as true as it needs to be, but he has to say it out loud.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you next lesson,” he promises, hoping Yuuri will forget to ask.

…

Yuuri is his best friend, but he is still the boy in blue, and Phichit knows he will never catch up to him if he doesn’t push himself beyond what everyone thinks him capable of. He doesn’t for a second regret the years he spent finding his footing before his family moved close enough to the Imperial World rink for him to start skating seriously. He tries not to resent those who dismiss him, tries to see it instead as an opportunity to prove how wrong they are, to show off what the boy from Thailand can do.

That’s why, at the end of the next session, he decides to attempt the triple axel Yuuri has just started landing successfully. Rationally, he knows it’s dangerous, especially when his muscles are already shaking with fatigue, but the thought of pulling it off, of surprising Yuuri – impressing him, even – is too alluring to ignore. _Imagine the look on his face when you land it._

Celestino is already calling for them to start their cooldown, so he has to be quick. He moves away from the other skaters into an empty patch where he can build up enough speed to take off, and then launches into the jump. _Look at me, Yuuri_. He is flying, elated –

He hears someone yell his name, and the voice is sharp with panic. On his final rotation he realises too late that he is far too close to the edge of the ice – but there is nothing he can do. His momentum carries him forward and he smashes into the boards full-force, and everything goes dark.

…

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he registers is the pain threatening to split his head in two.

The second is Yuuri.

“Oh thank God, Phichit, you’re awake, how are you feeling?” he babbles, throwing his arms around Phichit.

The pain comes in beats, and he waits for a pause between two of them before he replies. “Uh… not peachy.”

“I’m not surprised,” Yuuri says, looking up from burying his face in Phichit’s shirt. “You gave yourself a concussion, you idiot.”

That would explain why his skull is trying to tear itself open. Breathing carefully, nauseous with pain, he glances past Yuuri into the corridor and sees Celestino – and, next to him, Helga.

“What’s Helga doing here?” It comes out blunter than intended, but between the pain and the rolling sickness in his stomach, he doesn’t have space to care.

Yuuri looks away. “Moral support. I didn’t really want her to come – I was so worried about you, and I didn’t, I couldn’t deal with her being around, I didn’t want her to see me this upset…” He trails off helplessly.

Phichit wonders exactly what happened between them. He knows how private Yuuri can be with his emotions, how fiercely he guards them – even from him, sometimes.

Before he can work out what to say, Celestino strides into the room, grim-faced with anger.

Phichit shrinks back against the pillows and interlaces his fingers with Yuuri’s, bracing himself.

“How could you be so stupid, Phichit? Attempting a jump you haven’t been properly trained to do… Have you any idea how dangerous that was? How badly you could have injured yourself? Do you want to throw away your whole career because of one stupid mistake?”

He shakes his head, unable to meet Celestino’s furious gaze, and grips Yuuri’s fingers tighter. Tears of shame well up in his eyes, but he can’t let them fall. He has no problem crying in front of Yuuri, but if he gives in to tears now, it will only convince Celestino – who’s already treating him like some stupid child – that he really is too young, too naïve to be taken seriously as a skater. He waits until the danger of tears has passed, and then mumbles, “I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“No, you won’t,” Celestino says shortly.

Phichit risks glancing up at him, fearing another outburst, but to his surprise the anger on Celestino’s face is already softening into thoughtfulness.

“Not without supervision, anyway, and of course not until you’ve fully recovered. If there are any complications, you might have to sit the next season out. But you know,” he says with a slight smile that has a hint of pride behind it, “it wasn’t bad, for a first attempt. I think you might be ready to add it to your repertoire soon.”

Phichit looks at him, stunned. “Really?”

“You’ve come on amazingly well these past few months, so yes, I think you’re ready.” His smile disappears. “But pull another stunt like that and you’ll find yourself without a rink to practice on, is that understood?”

Phichit nods quickly.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel. But I can’t have you putting yourself in danger. I know you want to push yourself – I understand that you want to be the best you can be, and I’m very proud of your progress – but your safety must always, always come first. _You_ must always come first.” He moves forward and puts a hand on Phichit’s shoulder. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to listen to an old fart like me, but spare a thought for Yuuri. He’s been worried sick about you.” He smiles at the two of them. “Okay, lecture over. I’ll hand over to you, Yuuri.” With a wave of his hand, he slips out into the corridor.

Disappointment thuds through Phichit as Yuuri drops his hand. He sighs. “Guess you’re gonna yell at me, too.”

Yuuri frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“I messed up.”

“I mean, it was pretty dangerous, but the jump itself… You nearly had it, you know. Although you’re not supposed to headbutt the boards as you land,” he grins. “Where did you learn the triple axel, anyway?”

“From watching you, of course.”

That frown again. Phichit wishes he could reach out and smooth the little dent in Yuuri’s skin.

“Why on Earth would you want to learn from _me_? I’m a terrible example –”

“Yuuri, you’re the best skater at the rink. Not to sound creepy, but I’ve been watching you since my first session. You’ve no idea how much I admired you – still admire you.”

“You admired me? Why?”

Phichit’s chest tightens as he remembers that first day, back before he knew what Yuuri would mean to him. “You seemed so focused. Like you couldn’t see anything outside your own step sequence.”

Yuuri bursts out laughing.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Phichit pouts, a little put out.

Yuuri takes off his glasses. “Put these on.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, go on.”

Phichit slips the thick-framed glasses onto his face. Nausea surges through him as the world suddenly blurs. He rips them off and hands them back to Yuuri, who pushes them over the bridge of his nose and sighs when they slip down. “Okay, your eyesight is atrocious, so?”

“I can’t wear these when I’m skating, right? And I’d forgotten my contacts that day. So –” Laughter overtakes him. “You were right,” he finally manages. “I literally couldn’t see anything else.”

Phichit laughs, too. “All this time, I’ve been admiring your focus when I should’ve been admiring your _lack_ of it –”

“That’s not how short-sightedness works –”

“Shh, it was a good pun.”

“Please, Phichit, your puns are _terrible_.”

Phichit folds his arms. “You injure me, Yuuri.”

“You seem to do a fine job of injuring yourself.” Yuuri bites his lip, his grin fading. “Look after yourself. Please. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt again – especially because of me –”

“You think this is your fault?”

Yuuri stares at him likes it’s obvious. “You were copying me.”

Phichit’s stomach twists with guilt at the tortured look on Yuuri’s face. “That doesn’t matter. I could’ve been copying Helga, or – Victor, or anyone –”

“But you weren’t!”

“I’m the one who made a stupid decision, Yuuri. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He tries to smile, but Yuuri’s unhappiness is tearing him up inside, and he can only manage a weak grin.

“Promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I mean, I don’t intend to be back in hospital any time soon. Have you any idea how hard it is to take a good selfie in a hospital gown –”

“Phichit. Just promise me. _Please._ ”

 _I’d promise you anything. I’d promise you the world, if it were mine to give_. _This is easy_. “Of course, Yuuri.”

…

Phichit stumbles as Yuuri slides him out of the piggyback and onto the carpet, gently disentangling Phichit’s arms from around his neck. This is an unwelcome development, but he forgets his dissatisfaction when Yuuri grasps his arm to steady him. He wants to thank Yuuri, but he can’t remember how. What he can remember is the name of the gorgeous human whose fingers are cool against his flushed skin. “Yuuuuuri,” he says, singsong, savouring the feel of it on his tongue. The name sounds so good that he says it again, and again, and again, until the syllables melt into one another. “You have the best name, Yuuri, did you know that?”

“I believe you might have said that already, yes. About – oh, fifteen times.” But he’s not cross, he’s smiling, and that smile is the most radiant thing Phichit has ever seen. He wants to bottle it like a firefly so he never has to be without its light. Without Yuuri’s light.

He’s never wanted to kiss Yuuri more than he does now. He reaches out, spins Yuuri back towards him before he suddenly stops. No. He might not like it. But it’s an effort not to lean in two more inches; his hand trembles with the weight of it, his whole body taught with the effort of holding that want inside him.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri looks at him in puzzlement, and Phichit can’t fathom why until he realises his hand is still on Yuuri’s jaw.

“You’re very beautiful, Yuuri.”

“And _you’re_ very drunk, Phichit,” Yuuri returns, blushing fiercely. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I let this happen. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Phichit giggles. What’s that line from the last musical he made Yuuri watch? _Bed, bed_ … Suddenly it comes back to him. “Bed, bed, I couldn’t go to bed, my head’s too light to try to set it dooooown,” he trills in his best Eliza Doolittle voice.

Yuuri winces.

 _Ooh, my bad. Indoor voice._ He cups Yuuri’s face with his other hand and continues in a whisper, “Sleep, sleep, Icouldn’tsleeptonight –”

Yuuri cuts him off. “Too bad. You’re going to bed anyway.”

Then Phichit is stumbling backwards, and Yuuri is half-herding, half-carrying him towards the sofa, the touch of his arm on Phichit’s back almost enough to topple him like a house of cards.

“And no more alcohol for you. Ever,” Yuuri says sternly, but he’s smiling in spite of himself.

And still blushing. He’s made Yuuri blush. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s a _thing_ , he’s affected Yuuri, maybe not the way Yuuri affects him, but still, it’s something, perhaps, or maybe it’s nothing –

“Being drunk doesn’t seem to affect your voice, though,” Yuuri grins, interrupting his mazy thoughts.

“’M not drunk,” he mumbles. “Or tired. Don’t need to… go to bed yet.” _Don’t… wanna leave you_. Laying his cheek against the softness of the sofa, he lets out a huge yawn.

Yuuri chuckles.

The sound breaks something inside Phichit, like a torrent destroying the carefully constructed dam keeping his feelings safely below the surface. “Yuuri,” he says urgently. “Yuuri. Yuuri.”

“What is it?”

Now he’s gone and worried him. He doesn’t want that; he just needs him to know, right now, or he’ll split open with the pressure of it.

“You.” That’s all he needs to say, surely. Yuuri is everything. There is nothing else.

“I what?” Yuuri asks, a touch impatiently. He grabs a water bottle from his bag and hands it to Phichit. “Here. You need to sober up.”

Yuuri’s priorities are so skewed Phichit starts to laugh, but what emerges is a sob. Why can’t Yuuri see he’s the only thing that matters?

He tries to take a sip of water – it’s clearly important to Yuuri – but he chokes and ends up sloshing water down his shirt front instead.

“Okay. Okay. It’s all right, Phichit, give me that.” Yuuri grabs the water bottle and sets it down on the table, out of harm’s way. He rubs Phichit’s back. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay, because Yuuri doesn’t understand - doesn’t understand that he’s the most important thing to happen in Phichit’s life, the most important person in the world, the best human being who has ever existed or ever will –

“You’re the best,” he mumbles, through tears, and Yuuri gives him a startled half-smile.

“Thanks? But it’s my fault you ended up getting drunk, I shouldn’t have let that happen –”

“You don’t understand –” He’s getting agitated again, and Yuuri has his hand on Phichit’s arm, trying to calm him. “You don’t understand,” he whispers again. “You’re the best. The, the…” He searches for the words, but none of the languages he knows will give him a way to express what Yuuri means to him.

The temptation to kiss him is still powerful, but he settles for wrapping his arms around Yuuri and burying his face in Yuuri’s chest. “I love you,” he says into the front of Yuuri’s jacket.

Yuuri laughs, the same soft laugh Phichit usually adores, but it’s all wrong. “I love you too,” Yuuri says, stroking his hair.

But Yuuri doesn’t mean the same thing Phichit does, and Phichit is too tired and muddled to bridge that gap. _In the morning. I’ll tell him properly in the morning._

Somehow, though, he can’t quite bring himself to broach the subject in the light of day. To risk stepping out onto thin ice only to find it can’t hold his weight, and he’s destroyed the easy affection of their friendship for nothing. So he stays silent, and tries to ignore the way his chest tightens whenever he looks at Yuuri.

…

He’s never seen Yuuri in such a state. Compared to the major competitions in which Yuuri has appeared (and triumphed), tomorrow’s event – Skate Detroit – is nothing for a multiple medallist to be nervous about. But Phichit knows Yuuri well enough to understand that’s not how it works. Sometimes Yuuri’s world tips out from under him, and all Phichit can do is stay with him until it rights itself again.

The first time Yuuri had a panic attack in front of him, Phichit had no idea what to do. He knows better now, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It breaks Phichit’s heart to see Yuuri so miserable. He’s a total wreck, huddled over the toilet bowl sobbing and shivering. Phichit can only hold Yuuri’s hair back from his face, stroke his back, murmur that _it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay, I’m here, I’ve got you_.

Yuuri retches one last time and sinks back against Phichit’s shoulder, exhausted.

“Here.” Phichit hands him a damp cloth, and Yuuri makes a small noise of gratitude as he takes it and wipes his mouth.

“God, I’m so sorry –”

“Nope. Shh. No apologies,” he says, helping Yuuri up.

As Yuuri changes for bed, Phichit makes him a cup of Ya-hom with the powder from his parents’ last care package. He makes one for himself, too; he doesn’t feel sick, but there’s a curious weight in his chest that won’t go away. Probably just a cold. Leaving his own mug on the counter, he fills a water bottle for Yuuri as well, and takes that through with Yuuri’s cup.

Yuuri is already in bed, but he sits up when Phichit emerges from the kitchenette. “You’re a star,” he says, grinning weakly, as he takes the mug from Phichit. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Phichit doesn’t say anything back. He can’t. Yuuri’s fingers have barely brushed his, but he feels so winded by the contact that he might as well have been struck. _C’mon, get a grip._ He mentally shakes himself and puts the water bottle down next to Yuuri’s bed.

Yuuri finishes the Ya-hom and turns to him with a smile. “ _Fun dee na_ , Phichit.”

“ _Oyasumi_ ,” he all but whispers back. He must be coming down with a cold after all; that’s the only reason for his voice to sound so strange, for his breath to stick in his throat like this. It’s just a coincidence that the weight in his chest intensifies as Yuuri rolls over and pulls the blanket over his head.

There’s a tickle at the back of his throat, too, scratchy and persistent. He tries to swallow it back, but his throat won’t clear. He hurries through to the bathroom so he won’t disturb Yuuri.

He coughs, and when he brings his hand away from his mouth, there is a red rose petal crushed against his palm.

Even as cold terror seizes him, he casts about desperately for an explanation. There must have been rose petals in – something. Soap, a bath bomb, _anything_ that will explain this away. He throws open the doors of the bathroom cabinet and rifles through packages and bottles, his hands trembling. _Fuck. Fuck. What do I do what do I do what do I do_ – In his haste, he knocks a container of Yuuri’s Paxil off the shelf with a clatter.

“Phichit? You ‘kay in there?” Yuuri’s sleepy voice calls.

Through the blank horror, he croaks out, “Peachy.” Rising above the wave of fear is the knowledge that, whatever happens, Yuuri mustn’t know. “Dropped my toothbrush, that’s all. Sorry to wake you.”

“’S okay. Night, Phichit. Love you.”

A wild laugh bubbles up in his throat and he bites his tongue to keep it from spilling out. Shaking, he slides down the wall and hunches over on the floor, fist jammed against his mouth to keep Yuuri from hearing his sobs.

 _What the hell do I do now?_ There’s no doubt this is hanahaki; everyone knows what that means. Petals first, clogging up his lungs and suffocating him day by day. And if he survives that, the cruel sharpness of branches taking over his body like a second skeleton until there is nothing of _him_ left at all.

In one moment, his almost limitless options for the future have all been snatched away, save for two stark choices that aren’t choices at all. He can undergo the operation that will rid him of the flowers – and with it the ability to love – or he can leave them to grow, and let Yuuri, sweet, kind, resilient Yuuri, be the death of him.

As if to drive home the point, another cough builds in his throat. He tries to suppress it, his stomach turning at the thought of more petals, but he has to cough before he runs out of air.

He catches the petals in shaking hands without looking at them, knowing he will throw up if he does. Eyes squeezed tight shut, he takes deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm the rolling of his stomach. But nothing can stop his mind from racing.

What will be the first to go? His lungs, filled with thorns instead of air? His heart, strangled by vines until it gives up beating? Or will he simply wither away, crumble into dust little by little as the sickness destroys him from the inside out?

Trying to claw his way back from the oblivion of fear, he silently repeats to himself _it’s a dream, it’s just a dream._ But he can’t make himself believe it, not unless he can prove this is a nightmare, that he’s going to wake up to find that everything is fine.

He opens his eyes, braces himself, and unclenches his fist.

Rose petals are smeared against his skin like bloodstains.

All thoughts of not waking Yuuri are forgotten as his stomach lurches and he retches violently, repeatedly, not stopping until nothing is left.

It feels like another lifetime ago that Yuuri was doing the same. Unlike Yuuri, Phichit has no-one to stroke his hair back from his sweat-dampened face and tell him it will be okay.

No sound from the other side of the door. Yuuri is asleep, unaware of the quake that has torn the ground from under Phichit’s feet.

For Yuuri’s sake, it has to stay that way. He can’t bear the thought of Yuuri blaming himself; if Phichit lets it, this disease will tear Yuuri apart with guilt, and he can’t allow that to happen. Once he steps through that door, everything must carry on as normal. _I’ve managed to hide how I feel about him until now. How hard can it be to hide a few flowers?_

But it’s a long time before he is able to pick himself up off the floor, and even then he hesitates for several moments with his fingers on the door handle, summoning the courage to go back through into the other room.

When he eventually does, he doesn’t look over at Yuuri’s sleeping figure. There are too many emotions tangled together in his chest to risk letting any of them break free; nothing for it but to wait until the storm subsides. He goes to the kitchenette and tips out his cold, useless cup of Ya-hom, his fingers shaking so badly he almost drops the mug. Then he sinks into bed like a stone dropping into a well, and lies there in the dark, hoping for sleep he knows won’t come.

…

The next day, Yuuri is too consumed by nerves to notice the dark circles under Phichit’s eyes, the way he picks at his breakfast instead of wolfing it down, the number of times he excuses himself from public practice before petals can force their way out of his throat and stain the ice red. Worse than the pain in his chest is the pain of realising Yuuri doesn’t see anything wrong. But it’s also exactly what Phichit tells himself he wants, even when he struggles valiantly through to hold on to fifth place and all Yuuri has to say, gold medal gleaming around his own neck, is ‘Better luck next time.’

As the days turn into weeks and Yuuri still hasn’t noticed, he keeps telling himself that.

…

“Bury me. Now,” Yuuri groans. “I don’t want to think about it for another second.”

“Hey, it’s all right, everyone gets sick.” Phichit reaches out a hand, but Yuuri shrinks away, curling into a tight ball at his end of the sofa.

“Not everyone throws up _on the ice_ at Skate America.”

“Remind me who came in third, even with food poisoning?”

“Judges probably felt sorry for me,” Yuuri mumbles into the cushions.

“You know that’s a lie, mister,” Phichit says sternly, poking him in the shoulder. “You always get underscored. You saw how furious Ciao Ciao was – you should have got silver, at least. No, you should have won.” _You were easily the best. Even though you were ill, you didn’t let it stop you. You were_ amazing.

Yuuri lifts his head a fraction. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was miles behind Bin and Chris.”

“Like I said, underscored.”

“I’d rather be underground,” Yuuri grumbles, burying his head in the cushions again.

“Difficult to pet hamsters when you’re dead,” Phichit says, ignoring the heaviness in his lungs.

Yuuri doesn’t respond.

“Or rap all of Hamilton.”

Still no reply.

“Or tell your best friend how gorgeous he is and how lucky you are to live with such a stylish, sexy –”

A cushion hits him square in the face, almost knocking him off the sofa. Regaining his balance, Phichit picks it up with a wicked grin. “Underground, you said? I think I can arrange that.”

…

Looking up as Yuuri steps into the room, he is struck for the thousandth time by what a miracle Yuuri is. Yuuri looks as wretched as an actor in a disaster film, his face pale and drawn, his hair plastered to his skin with sweat, but the sight of him still makes Phichit’s blood sing. There’s nothing he wants more than to take Yuuri in his arms, to brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss him. Instead he smiles and says, “Long practice, huh?”

“I guess. What time is it –”

“SHOWTIME!” Phichit yells.

Yuuri sighs in mock-exasperation. “I _knew_ it was a mistake introducing you to _Hamilton_.” But he’s already looking a little brighter.

“Anyway, you know what time it is. It’s past nine on a Thursday night and you’ve just come back looking absolutely dead on your feet…” _But still unfairly stunning_ , he adds to himself. “It’s pamper Yuuri time, of course! Come on, take off your shoes.”

“You don’t have to do this, Phichit. You must be tired too.” But he’s already kicking off his trainers.

“I’m not the one who’s been at practice for the past three hours,” he shoots back, even though what he wants to say is, _I could never be tired when I’m with you._ “And anyway, I enjoy it.” _I enjoy making you happy._

As Yuuri flops down on the sofa, Phichit fills a washing-up bowl with warm water. “There you go.” He places it down in front of Yuuri, who gratefully sinks his feet into the water, and then he heads through to the bathroom and pulls a paper Lush bag out of the wall cabinet. “Whoops, almost forgot this,” he says, unwrapping the foot soak bar and tossing it into the water.

“Wait, I thought you were saving that for after Four Continents?” Yuuri looks genuinely horrified.

“You need it now. Besides, with all the prize money, I’ll be able to buy, like, a _million_ of them.”

“We’ll see about that,” Yuuri grins.

Phichit clutches his chest. “You doubt me? Yuuri, I’m offended. You know what, maybe you don’t deserve this after all. Maybe I should have made this _hamster_ pampering night instead.” Arms folded, he puts on his best model pout and steps away from Yuuri.

“Okay, okay, you’ll definitely get the gold, all right? Now come back here.” Yuuri reaches out and takes hold of Phichit’s arm.

Yuuri’s touch sends a rush of sweetness through him. “Ooh, demanding Yuuri. I like it.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but doesn’t let go. “I _will_ splash you.”

“I’m shivering in my shoes,” Phichit teases. Yuuri’s ‘threatening’ face is about as threatening as Vicchan’s.

Yuuri kicks his foot out and sends up a wave of water.

Letting out a shriek, Phichit launches himself at Yuuri. “You’re dead, Katsuki,” he growls as he grabs Yuuri and starts tickling him.

Now Yuuri is the one shrieking. He thrashes around, trying to escape, but Phichit has him pinned against the sofa cushions. “Phichit, please, I’m sorry I splashed you, just please sto _ooop tickling me_ –” His voice shoots up an octave as Phichit’s fingers unerringly find that particularly ticklish spot above his left hip.

“Who’s going to win Four Continents?” Phichit grins, merry, merciless.

Yuuri squirms, giggling in spite of himself. “You are, okay, _I surrender_.”

He doesn’t want to let Yuuri off this lightly. Doesn’t want to lose this closeness, Yuuri’s body flush against his. But desire is stirring in his belly, and if it stirs any more, Yuuri will notice.

Yuuri looks surprised, but relieved, when Phichit gets to his feet. “Giving up that easily?” he grins.

Phichit moves as if to tackle him again, but instead straightens up and grins ruefully, “The water will be getting cold.” He surveys the lavender-scented wet patch on the carpet. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. One sec, I’m gonna go change.” He grabs the first pair of dry trousers that comes to hand and ducks into the bathroom.

Yuuri shrugs off his jacket as Phichit re-emerges, and it’s like he’s shrugging off all his worry and fatigue with it as they settle into their usual routine – Yuuri dangling his feet in the water, Phichit standing behind him and massaging his shoulders. The air is full of the scent of Yuuri, and Phichit breathes it in as deeply as he dares, grateful that it overpowers the sickly-sweet aroma of flowers that never leaves him.

He hums absent-mindedly as he works out the knots in Yuuri’s shoulders. This closeness is precious; Yuuri barely tolerated hugs when they first met, but now the tension in his body melts away under Phichit’s touch. Making Yuuri happy, even in this small way, is worth the ache in his chest, the constant scratching in his throat.

Yuuri starts to laugh, his shoulders shaking beneath Phichit’s fingers. “Um, Phichit?”

“Yeah?”

“This would be a lot less ominous if you weren’t singing ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls’ under your breath.”

 _Oops._ “Oh, you’d rather I serenaded you at full volume, then? ‘Cause I can do that –”

Yuuri sticks out his tongue.

“Cramp my style if you must,” Phichit sighs theatrically. He goes back to massaging Yuuri’s shoulders, kneading in time to the tune of ‘Kiss the Girl’.

After a while, Yuuri shifts and says, “Thanks, that feels so much better. You must be some kind of wizard, honestly.”

“And don’t you forget it. Now, which hamster do you want today?”

“I think it’s Peggy’s turn. I haven’t held her in a while.”

“Okay then.” He turns to go, but Yuuri stops him.

“Um… Any particular reason why you’re wearing my trousers?”

Phichit looks down and realises that, sure enough, the jeans he hastily pulled on are Yuuri’s. His stomach dips, not unpleasantly. “They make my butt look good,” he grins, striking a pose, and Yuuri rolls his eyes.

For a second, his eyes flicker reflexively to Phichit’s body and there’s a stab of hope in Phichit’s chest. Then Yuuri looks away.

Despair flashes through him, an old wound reopening every time Yuuri makes it clear he doesn’t think of Phichit like that. The tightness in his chest is unbearable. With more brightness than he feels, Phichit says, “One hamster coming right up.”

Slinging a clean towel from the cupboard over his shoulder, he goes to the hamster cage on their shared desk, where the brown and white hamster is running on her wheel. “Hey, Peg,” he says softly, reaching in. She scrambles away from him. It takes him longer than usual to catch her, but finally he corners her and scoops her up, cupping her little warm body against his chest.

When he goes back through into the living room, Yuuri has already dozed off. Cheek resting against the sofa cushion, hair falling over his face, arms hugged across his body, he’s so small and soft that it makes Phichit’s heart hurt just looking at him.

He could kiss him, desperately wants to, even takes a step towards him before he stops himself. _Yuuri would never know,_ says a quiet, dangerous voice at the back of his mind. But that’s the point. It wouldn’t be right.

Instead, he reaches into his pocket for his phone, and snaps a picture. Perfect. It’s uploaded in the space of a breath. He hesitates for just a second before adding the tag #sleepingbeauty.

It seems a shame to wake Yuuri now, but he doesn’t want him to get cold. “Hey, sleepyhead.” He shakes Yuuri gently by the shoulder. “You want this hamster or not?”

Yuuri blinks awake, his groggy fumbling for consciousness so painfully adorable that Phichit almost takes another picture as Yuuri slowly comes back to himself. “Oops, sorry.” Yuuri holds out his hands. “Come here, Peg.”

Phichit plops the hamster down in Yuuri’s outstretched hands, and she scampers up his arm and onto his shoulder. Yuuri picks her up, laughing, and lets her run up his arm again, and again.

Phichit sits in front of Yuuri and begins to dry his feet. He’s used to the bruising, the callouses, the redness, but it is a constant reminder of how much Yuuri puts into this sport they both love, and how much it takes out of him.

He wonders whether it takes more out of Yuuri than either of them realises, whether he leaves a something of himself behind every time he leaves the rink. Does what happens off the ice feel completely real to Yuuri, or is there a part of him that only comes alive when he steps out onto that unforgiving surface and takes flight – just like Phichit’s world brightens whenever Yuuri steps through the door, and dims when he leaves? For Phichit, the ice is a platform, a stage, but for Yuuri, he knows, it is home.

When Yuuri’s feet are dry, he lifts Yuuri’s left foot onto his lap and begins to circle his thumbs against Yuuri’s sole until he feels the tension start to dissipate. He places Yuuri’s left foot down, and moves onto the right.

He must have done this two dozen times, but it could never bore him. He loves the cosy, innocent intimacy of the ritual. He pauses, feeling the heft of Yuuri’s foot in his hand, the places where his skin is rough and callused. Beauty, but hard-won; that’s Yuuri all over. _I would follow these feet to the ends of the earth._ He looks up at Yuuri, who smiles back at him, soft and glowing and happy. There is a heartbeat in which he almost brings his lips to Yuuri’s foot; the possibility thrums in the air between them, resonating like the last chord of an imperfect cadence, pleading for resolution. When it fades, it leaves an ache in Phichit’s chest, the taste of blood at the back of his throat.

He swallows, smiles. “How are you feeling?” he asks, as he has a thousand times before.

“Just peachy,” Yuuri grins back. Their old routine. Comforting, familiar, and – for now – enough.

…

“You did _what_?” Yuuri stares, aghast, at Ketty.

“Oh, c’mon, it’ll be fun.” Her grin is wider than the Cheshire Cat’s. “Right, Phichit?”

Phichit, overcome by laughter, can’t reply. He’s always thought himself the master of pranks, but next to this, the old hair dye in the shampoo bottle trick looks decidedly tame. _Worth it to see Ciao Ciao’s face when Yuuri came in with green hair for an entire week, though._ Even if it did cost him a small fortune to replace the expensive shampoo Yuuri has such a penchant for. When he’s recovered enough breath, he flashes Ketty his brightest grin. “Joke’s on you, K, I’ve always wanted to try pole.”

“Planning your backup career as a stripper in case the whole skating thing doesn’t work out?”

He grabs the side of the bookcase like it’s a pole and strikes a wobbly pose. “You know it.”

Yuuri, face buried in his hands, mumbles something indistinct.

“What was that?”

Yuuri lifts his head a fraction, his face bright red. “’S nothing inherently sexual about pole aerobics. It’s, um, pretty athletic.”

“Hey, sounds like someone’s been doing their research!” says Ketty, looking impressed. She sighs in mock disappointment. “Don’t tell me I went to the trouble of signing you up for something you were just gonna join anyway.”

Phichit can’t imagine Yuuri voluntarily signing up for pole-dancing classes, at least not sober. But when the first class of the semester comes around and Yuuri goes along uncomplainingly, he has to ask why.

“Celestino keeps saying I need to improve my core strength, so I’ve been looking into the options,” Yuuri admits. “Which does _not_ mean I’m not still furious with K for signing me up, I’m only doing this because it’s good exercise, seriously Phichit _stop smirking_ –”

“Okay, okay, I believe you.” Perhaps Yuuri really is telling the truth. Not going along would feel like backing down from a challenge, and Yuuri would hate that.

Phichit knows better than to press him. But whatever his reasons, when it comes to the class itself, Yuuri is a revelation. While Phichit struggles with even the most basic moves, Yuuri takes to it like he’s been doing this his whole life. Yuuri is right that there is more of the athletic than the erotic to it; sitting in a sweaty heap on the floor nursing his bruised pride and thighs after another failed attempt at a scissor sit, Phichit has never felt _less_ sexy in his life. But there’s an undeniable sensuality to Yuuri’s movements that Phichit has never seen before. Yuuri is a jewel being held up to the light anew, revealing facets he never even imagined.

 _Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, Yuuri, you go and make me fall even deeper in love with you_. It would take lifetimes to fully unravel the mystery that is Katsuki Yuuri.

As he watches Yuuri dance and feels the buds of longing burst against his ribs, he wonders exactly how long a lifetime will turn out to be.

…

When Yuuri isn’t around, Phichit finds himself restive, fidgety, unable to concentrate on anything but the thought of him. He thinks himself into tighter and tighter spirals until he can’t breathe for petals and has to throw up. Nothing distracts him; as hard as he tries to focus on something, anything else, his mind always, always circles back to Yuuri. That wouldn’t have been such a problem before the petals; he was quite content, then, to daydream about Yuuri and ignore everything else. But now even the most innocuous daydreams are too painful.

One afternoon when Yuuri is in class, Phichit is alone in the flat, counting the hours until evening practice and trying to ignore the sour tang of petals in his throat as he watches Eliza running on her wheel. Although the heating is on full blast and he’s wearing one of Yuuri’s hoodies over his own, his hands curled up inside the too-long sleeves, he can’t stop his teeth chattering. How anyone survives the chill of the Detroit winter is beyond him; he wishes for a moment that he was back home in Bangkok. But Bangkok is eight and a half thousand miles away, and Yuuri is right here.

He sighs. “What am I going to do, Eliza?”

The only reply is the rhythmic squeaking of the wheel as the grey hamster carries on running. She’s barely stopped since he got back from class.

As he hauls himself off the sofa – if he’s going to mope, he might as well hold a hamster or two while he does – he shivers violently. Eliza stops for a moment, startled, and then sets off running again, as if her life depends on it. “Are you cold, little one?”

He has an idea.

Three hours and one trip to Hobby Lobby later, he has Eliza decked out in a hamster-sized hoodie, and is halfway through Angelica’s when Yuuri walks in.

With a jolt, he realises he hasn’t thought about Yuuri all this time.

“Hey, Phichit –” Yuuri stops, noticing Eliza’s new accessory. “Wait, they make hoodies for hamsters now?”

“ _They_ don’t, but I do,” he says proudly, holding up the one he’s working on.

Yuuri looks impressed. “I didn’t know you could sew.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Yuuri,” Phichit says in his best sultry tones, unable to resist flirting although it will cost him. Right on cue, the flowers begin to stir in his chest.

Yuuri laughs, flooding the air with warmth and sweetness, and he can breathe again.

“Seriously, when did you learn?”

“I must’ve been about eight – I kept splitting my trousers falling over at the rink, and I got through so many pairs Mâe made me patch them up. I found I kinda enjoyed it. Turns out I’m quite good with my hands.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“Mind out of the gutter, Katsuki,” he splutters, cheeks growing hot. _That one was unintentional._

Yuuri smirks. “I’m learning a lot about you today.” Yuuri has no idea what the simple quirk of his lips is doing to Phichit’s entire being, and it’s a relief when he says, “Come on, we’d better get ready for practice. Don’t want to be skating punishment laps again.”

 _I’d skate any number of laps if it meant staying by your side, Yuuri._ But he puts down Angelica’s half-finished hoodie and pulls on his trainers all the same.

…

All the birthday presents he gives that year are hand-sewn. He makes them for his family, for Celestino, for his rinkmates, even for the Gay-Straight Alliance on campus to sell, but he never makes anything for Yuuri.

…

Yuuri picks Peggy’s tiny yellow hoodie up off the desk and turns it over in his hands, wonderingly. “You know, Phichit, these really are amazing.”

“I do my best,” he says, smiling against the longing inside him.

Yuuri’s eyes sparkle in that devastating way they always do when he has something on his mind. “I wonder,” he starts, and then looks over at Phichit. “Do you think you could make one slightly bigger? Say… poodle size? It’s Vicchan’s birthday soon, and since I won’t be home for it…”

And the bottom drops out of his stomach. He can’t deny Yuuri this – wouldn’t dream of denying Yuuri anything that makes him happy, whatever the cost – but if he agrees to make a coat for Vicchan, that will be the last time he can use the comforting rhythm of needle and thread to keep his mind free of Yuuri, his lungs free of petals. Afterwards, this – like everything else – will be inextricably bound to Yuuri.

He smiles, hoping Yuuri can’t tell how forced it is. “What colour?”

…

Ketty grins at him over her iced mocha, a notebook open in front of her. “Tell me everything you know about Yuuri.”

Raising an eyebrow, Phichit sits back in his chair. “Are you asking for blackmail information? Because I have plenty, but I’m not gonna spill all his secrets just for – what, exactly?” Why Ketty would want to blackmail Yuuri, he has no idea.

She laughs. “P, you’re so protective of him, it’s adorable. Relax.”

He feels his face heat up, and realises his fists are clenched, his shoulders tense, as if anticipating genuine danger.

“You know how he wants me to write a piece for his free skate this season?”

Phichit nods. It’s Yuuri’s first time choosing his own music instead of letting Celestino make the selection, and Yuuri is horribly nervous about it.

“It’s supposed to be a reflection of his career so far. And I know some of that stuff already – when he made his senior debut, what medals he’s won, all of that. But I can’t write a piece based on scores and records and things. I need _real_ things to work from.” She grins conspiratorially. “That’s where you come in.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Look, I’ve spent enough time around Yuuri to have got to know him fairly well. But not well enough for something this important, not well enough to tell _the world_ what he’s like. There’s only one person who can do that.”

“Me,” Phichit says. His throat is dry, his heart so full that it feels ready to burst through the too-thin barrier of bones and skin. _Tell me everything you know about Yuuri._ Ketty might as well have said _tell me everything you know about the universe._ “Where do you want me to start?”

She hears the slight tremor in his voice, sees the way he looks at her like she’s asking the impossible, and puts her hand on top of his with an apologetic smile. “Good question. Hmm… What’s the first thing you think of, when you think of Yuuri?”

“Autumn.” Before he met Yuuri, summer was his favourite season, but now he spends the long hot days impatient for the turning of the leaves, the bite of the morning air, that tell him autumn has come, and brought his favourite version of Yuuri with it. The Yuuri who snuggles against him in the library, finally comfortable in his jeans and coat and cosy, well-worn sweater, no longer fretting over the way his body looks in summer’s unforgiving glare. Yuuri reminds him of the skeleton leaves they find on the lawn outside the flat; fragile, but resilient, too, and all the more beautiful for it.

He can’t say those things to Ketty. They’ll shatter if he says them aloud, or perhaps he will, he isn’t sure. But she is still waiting for an explanation. “The start of the season,” he mumbles. “His birthday. The incident at the Hallowe’en party.”

“Oh my God, that was priceless. Remember the way he slut-dropped on the hockey captain?”

“How could I forget? I don’t think Yuuri remembers, though. He was _veeeery_ drunk.”

“Pity.” Her eyes light up suddenly. “Do you think you could convince him to add it to his choreography?”

“I think Yuuri would dissolve in shame if I tried,” he snorts. “He’s not Christophe.”

“Who’s he?” She screws up her face, trying to remember. “Oh, wait, the French dude with the nice butt?”

“Swiss, and his butt isn’t half as nice as Yuuri’s, but yeah.”

She chuckles, her face softening as she glances down at her notebook and scribbles something in looping Georgian. Perhaps she thinks him a lovestruck fool, but he doesn’t care; he would gladly make an idiot of himself for Yuuri’s sake. “Autumn. What else?”

It’s a dance, a delicate balance between holding too much back and laying everything bare, and Phichit – for all his protestations to the contrary – has never been as good a dancer as Yuuri. He tells Ketty the things that will make her laugh, the things that can stand to be told. But there are so many things he does not, cannot tell her, or they will be ruined, like something delicate exposed to the harshness of the sun. Things for which words are too blunt. Things for which there are no words at all, not in Thai or English or in any language but that which exists between him and Yuuri.

Ketty swigs the last of her coffee. “I can’t wait to get started on the piece. Thanks, P, this was a great help.”

Phichit hopes she is right, but privately he wonders whether he has been too selfish, too greedy in hoarding his knowledge of Yuuri. There is so much he has not told her. The picture he has painted is unremarkable, indistinct, like an image seen from far away; the one he sees is so sharp it cuts him. But he doesn’t have the courage to share that one.

…

_P, please, tell him I’m not angry_

_already did, he wont listen_

_Tell him again_

_im doin my best, K, but u no how stubborn he is i_

_m sorry_

He sighs, and puts down his phone. He hates lying to Ketty. He’s not _doing his best_ ; he hasn’t even mentioned it to Yuuri since the first time, after Yuuri came back from seeing Celestino, still clutching the unmarked CD with Ketty’s piece on it. Yuuri is convinced that he’s ruined his friendship with Ketty by not using her composition, and once Yuuri is convinced of something, not even Phichit can talk him out of it.

…

When Yuuri finally lands the spot in the Grand Prix Final that he’s been reaching for all these years, Phichit begs Celestino to let him fly with them to Russia. “It’s not like I’d be missing much practice time. And Yuuri needs me for moral support.” He grins with an artificial brightness at Yuuri, whose lips barely twitch in response before he goes back to staring at the floor. Anyone could see what a strain Yuuri has been under this season, even more so now with the pressure of his first final on him.

“Nonsense! You can’t afford to slack off if you want to make next year’s final. Besides, you’ve got Nationals coming up, and then Worlds –” Glancing at Yuuri, who looks ready to throw up, Celestino falls silent.

“Ciao Ciao, please –”

“I told you not to call me that! And no –”

“I’ll pay for the ticket myself, I’ll do twice the practice for the rest of the season, I’ll –”

“You’ll stay here and stop arguing before you get punishment laps for the next week!” Celestino snaps, and then sighs. “What’s got into you, Phichit? This isn’t like you.”

 _It’s Yuuri’s first Grand Prix Final, and I’d sell my soul to be there to watch._ More than that, Yuuri’s anxiety has been getting the better of him in the run-up to the final, and Phichit is scared it will overwhelm him completely. _I’m the only one who can help him when he thinks the world is ending. Hell, I’m the only one he lets near him when things are bad_. And things are worse than they’ve ever been – for Phichit as much as for Yuuri.

“I just wanted to see Yuuri skate,” he says, hating how petulant he sounds. “I wanted to be there –”

“You’ll be competing against each other at Worlds – your season isn’t over yet. I know you’re disappointed not to have made it –”

“That’s not –”

“– but you won’t make it next year, either, if you keep up this attitude. You can come with us as far as the airport, but you’d better be on your best behaviour while we’re away.”

“Yes, Ci- Coach,” he mumbles. “Thank you.” Ciao Ciao has it all wrong; he’s treating Phichit like a bad loser, a kid who can’t handle not getting his own way. If things were normal, it would be okay that he didn’t make this year’s GPF. If things were normal, he’d know he had plenty of other chances to see Yuuri skate, and to skate against him. To fulfil that dream of competing against Yuuri on the international stage. But with things as they are, who can say how many more chances he’ll have?

And so he is forced to let Yuuri go at the airport with a brief hug Yuuri barely returns, his wide grin met with a tight-lipped smile that soon vanishes. He watches Yuuri slope off after Ciao Ciao, shoulders hunched and head bowed, until they both disappear through the security gates.

The short programme briefly allays his fears; Yuuri’s performance begins shakily, but as it goes on there are glimpses of the skater that Yuuri can be when everything goes right. It’s enough to put him in fourth. _Good. This is good. He can medal from here, but he doesn’t have the pressure of being in the top spot already. He can do this._

When the reporter interviewing Yuuri after the short programme makes a passing comment about Yuuri’s weight, Phichit has to stop himself from punching the screen.

He texts Yuuri, partly to congratulate him and partly to check how he’s doing. When he doesn’t hear back, he tries to call, but Yuuri’s phone is busy.

 _His family, probably._ Phichit tries to concentrate on the assignment in front of him – he’s already had one extension – but his mind is too full of Yuuri. When Yuuri finally calls back, his heart leaps and he picks up on the first ring.

“Hey –”

He hears the raggedness of Yuuri’s breathing and cuts himself off, stomach sinking. “What’s up?”

Yuuri can barely get the words out. “It’s Vicchan, Phichit, he’s –” A shuddering breath that seems to rip through Phichit’s chest too. “He got – he got run over.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t even get to s-say goodbye –” The next few words are drowned out by sobbing, the sound of Yuuri’s grief like a knife between Phichit’s ribs.

“Yuuri, you poor thing, I’m so, so sorry.” He can feel the petals rising in his throat, but he forces them back down. He can’t come apart now.

“D-don’t be, I d-don’t deserve it. I’m such a shitty owner – I haven’t s-seen him in years –”

“That’s not your fault, Yuuri! _Please_ , listen to me, you were wonderful to him.”

“Why did this have to happen?” Yuuri chokes out.

That’s a question Phichit can’t answer. What can he do, except listen to Yuuri sobbing and wish he was with him, instead of stuck on the wrong side of the world making useless noises of comfort down the phone?

Eventually, Yuuri draws a breath and says, “Thanks, I’d – I’d probably better go. Celestino – he’ll be worried –”

“Call me if you wanna talk, okay?”

“Okay.”

But Yuuri doesn’t want to talk the next day, or the day after, when he fails to land any of the jumps in his free skate cleanly and ends up in sixth place. He doesn’t respond to any of Phichit’s messages, let alone his calls.

Neither does he want to talk when he and Ciao Ciao return from Russia. For the first time in almost five years, he flinches when Phichit hugs him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he says dully, catching the hurt that flashes across Phichit’s face before he can suppress it.

“It’s okay,” Phichit lies, and lets him be.

…

After Sochi, nothing he can say or do is enough. He can feel Yuuri slipping away from him and he can’t stop it. The night Yuuri leaves, blood stains the lotus petals for the first time, and he wonders, mind dull with pain, if this is it.

That night doesn’t kill him, but it is a cruel reminder of how little time is left.

Without Yuuri, Detroit feels wrong, empty. Yuuri has been by his side since before Phichit’s senior debut; what is he supposed to do without him? For the rest of the season he is numb, his mind a blank. He barely registers Worlds, meaningless without Yuuri there. Even his bronze from the Four Continents feels somehow hollow, as if it was won under false pretences. And all the while, the flowers grow more vicious, the attacks more frequent.

He needs to go back to Bangkok, needs to be with his family again, but he doesn’t know how to explain that to Celestino without telling him the truth. So he’s grateful when, at the end of the season, Celestino himself broaches the topic of Phichit’s future.

Celestino is more than receptive to the idea of Phichit’s moving back to Thailand to train. “I think a change might be good, at this point in your career.” Yuuri’s absence looms in the silence between them, and Celestino hurries on. “Besides,” he says with an awkward smile, “I’ve always wanted to see Thailand.”

 _What’s the point?_ pipes up a nasty little voice. _All this talk about your ‘career’ when you might not even live out the next season. You’re just wasting everyone’s time._

Guilt pricks at him like thorns, and he desperately smothers it before it can smother him. If he can surpass everyone’s expectations in the brief time he has left, Celestino’s efforts will be worthwhile. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

And so, as soon as graduation is over, Phichit finds himself in a taxi to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. He doesn’t know how he’s going to face his family, let alone the upcoming season, with the flowers weighing heavily on his chest. All he knows is he has to try.


	2. The Results of this Deception

Trundling his suitcase along behind him, Phichit pulls out his phone. He didn’t sleep at all on the long journey, and he feels groggy and disgusting. Bangkok in April is far too hot for the beanie pulled down around his ears, but his hair is a mess; he didn’t even bother with the usual airport selfie, too exhausted for his online persona, for the grooming it demands. He would usually find solace in it, but right now he can’t spare the energy. He tries not to dwell on the reason fatigue drags him a little further down every day.

He’s scrolling through Twitter when he sees the video. His heart thuds against his ribs as he recognises Yuuri’s face on the screen. There’s a tell-tale prickling at the back of his throat, but the cough never comes. He stops dead in the middle of the pavement. _Yuuri…_ He knows the starting pose, even without music; it wasn’t long ago he was watching Victor skate this at Worlds. _What’re you trying to do, Yuuri?_

Heart hammering, he watches as Yuuri unfolds into the first sequence. Yuuri’s face is drawn, his eyes dark with exhaustion, and Phichit is terrified he’s going to fall. Is that why the video’s so popular? He can’t read the Japanese tweet that accompanies it, can’t tell if he’s about to witness some terrible humiliation. _But who would have filmed –_ He sees Chris has retweeted it, and relaxes a little, guilt twisting in his gut. _Have more faith in him_.

As Yuuri moves into a flawless spin, something in Phichit begins to lift and lighten. Yuuri’s movements are so fluid, so graceful, but more than that, they’re _alive._ If they’re less technically accomplished than Victor’s, Phichit neither notices nor cares. Victor could skate this in his sleep, but Yuuri – Yuuri is pouring everything he has, everything he _is_ , into this skate.

Although Yuuri is skating in silence, Phichit can hear music in every sweeping curve, every searing glide, and his heart swells with it. Yuuri is dancing again. The last time Phichit saw him skate, it was like he was fighting the ice; now it yields to him, soft and gracious, and sends him skywards again.

Yuuri no longer looks tired, although sweat glistens on his brow. There is a fierce determination in his eyes, keen as the blades beneath him, and Phichit cannot suppress a cry of delight when he recognises it.

“Yuuri!” He hasn’t seen that look – pure determination, without self-loathing, without fear – in what feels like forever, and a current of mingled joy and relief shoots through him at the sight.

_Oh, Yuuri, it’s so good to have you back._

…

The call comes through just as his practice session is ending, and when he sees Yuuri’s name on the screen, he almost drops the phone in his excitement. He hasn’t heard from Yuuri in what feels like forever; he tried to call him after the _Stammi Vicino_ video, but Yuuri didn’t answer, and he knew better than to pressure him. But now he can’t hit ‘Accept’ fast enough.

“ _Sawatdee kap_!”

Phichit can’t decide what’s more miraculous – the sound of his voice, familiar Thai inflections accurate but unmistakeably _Yuuri_ , or seeing Yuuri’s face again. Not an amateur video copy but the real Yuuri, _his_ Yuuri.

“It’s been a while,” he smiles back, and instantly wonders if that sounds too confrontational, if Yuuri will hear blame where none was intended. “How’ve you been?”

But Yuuri only grins, as excited to see Phichit as Phichit is to see him. “You’re practising back in Thailand, huh?”

Phichit nods. “Detroit’s boring now that you’re gone.” There are a hundred words more fitting than _boring_ , but it wouldn’t be fair to tell Yuuri honestly how flat and dead the city feels without him. He forces himself back into airy cheerfulness before regret can take hold. “You should come to Bangkok. I’ll show you around.”

Yuuri’s laugh is like rain in a drought. “ _Khop khun kap_.” Simple words, but so special coming from Yuuri. “Hey, Phichit, do you remember how I had that music demo made?”

 _As if I would’ve forgotten_. But he can tell that’s not Yuuri’s real question. It’s time to start working on their new programmes and choosing music; Yuuri’s too cautious to ask, but he wants to know if Ketty would write him another piece.

“I’ll put out feelers to see where she is.” As he says that, Phichit realises he misses her. Back in Detroit, it was rare for a day to pass without one of them at least texting the other, but since the imagined falling-out between her and Yuuri they’ve lost the habit. “I’m sure she’s not mad or anything.” It’s difficult to imagine Ketty being mad at _anyone_ , but Yuuri has a very active imagination.

There’s so much more he wants to say. He wants to know everything Yuuri has been up to since leaving Detroit; he’s greedy for the little details he once took for granted, the everyday moments he misses more intensely than he can articulate. What is the first thing Yuuri does when he wakes up? What meals does his mother cook? Does he have water fights with his sister when they’re doing the washing-up, or is that something only he and Yuuri did? He wants to let Yuuri in on his life, too, to tell him how the khao phat puu his parents cooked for him on his first night back was the best thing he’s ever tasted, that this is the longest he’s ever gone without arguing with Somchai.

That a new bud opens in his lungs every morning he wakes up to realise he’s back in Bangkok, and Yuuri is all the way across the sea in Hasetsu.

His heart is so full he’s afraid the petals will overflow, and it’s almost a relief to hear Celestino calling the end of break, to let Yuuri go. Almost, but not quite.

…

That evening, just as he is about to email Ketty, Yuuri texts him again.

_I have to tell you something but I need you to promise you won’t be mad at me._

_Would I ever,_ he thinks, but all he texts back is _‘sup’._ If he doesn’t text back immediately, that will give Yuuri even more time to think himself in knots.

_I realised Ketty would have to know this so the piece can reflect it, and I should have told you ages ago anyway. But I was so unsure, and then I announced it at the press conference and now it’s all a bit of a mess and I’m sorry._

_yuuri slow down u still havent said what it is yet_

Yuuri types like he talks, either hesitantly or everything at once, as if he can’t hold on to all the words he needs to say.

_Oh. Right._

A pause, just long enough for Phichit to feel uneasy, then another text. All it says is _‘Um’_ , but there’s a picture attached, and it takes Phichit’s brain a long time to process what he is seeing.

Victor Nikiforov. _The_ Victor Nikiforov. Grinning at the camera, sitting up in bed in Yuuri’s parents’ inn, Yuuri’s laptop perched on his legs.

_wow yuuri didn’t know u were so good at photoshop_

That’s the only explanation. The real Victor Nikiforov can’t be sitting in Yuuri’s bed, looking as comfortable and relaxed as if it were his own.

_I’m not! That’s really him. This is going to sound mad, but I promise I’m telling the truth. He’s agreed to coach me for this season._

Phichit waits for the rush of excitement to hit, but something nags at him, holding back the joy he should feel for Yuuri. He types ‘congrats!!!’, then deletes it and goes back to scrutinising the photo of Victor. Victor, almost unrecognisable from the glossy posters, his hair tousled and his eyes a little bleary but his smile radiant, no trace of the aloof ice prince in his face. Victor, smiling like a devoted dog reunited with its beloved owner. Victor _in Yuuri’s bed._ He tries to fit that image to the word ‘coach’, and fails.

_coach? so ur relationship is only professional huh_

He tries to bite back the unjustified anger rising in his chest. He’s never actually seen Yuuri’s bed, although the thought brings with it a stab of longing so sharp he doubles over and spits out a handful of bloodied yellow rose petals. _If he’s coaching Yuuri, it makes sense that he’d stay at Yuutopia. That’s all it is._ But that does nothing to quiet the dread in his stomach, and neither does Yuuri’s reply.

_That’s kind of the thing I was meaning to talk to you about._

_what do u mean,_ he texts, feeling hope running through his fingers like water.

_My theme for this season is love, and he’s a big part of that. I told you once that I wasn’t in love with him – I meant it then, but I think that might have changed. I still don’t really know yet. But I’m absolutely certain that he loves me, and that I want to be with him._

_The Japanese press already knows, but I don’t think the news has spread yet, and I’d rather keep it that way for a bit if I can. You won’t tell anyone except Ketty, will you?_

For a long, strange moment, he feels as empty as the shore before a tsunami hits, and in that moment he is able to type out a message.

_sure, just like u didn’t tell me_

And then the wave breaks over his him. Tears of rage and betrayal fill his eyes, and his stomach lurches cruelly as he doubles over, bringing up a clump of yellow rose petals, and then another and another.

His phone buzzes with Yuuri’s reply. He snatches the phone up and raises his arm to hurl it against the wall, but before he can, it buzzes again twice in quick succession. He lets it fall onto his duvet, and sinks down next to his bed, sobbing into his hands.

It’s only been a matter of months since Yuuri discarded their life together. Phichit has spent that time coughing up blood and petals, watching his future slip away, and meanwhile Yuuri has been fucking Victor Nikiforov and he didn’t even consider Phichit worthy of knowing.

What he wouldn’t give to be back in Detroit – not to be with Yuuri, but to tear down all of his precious, infuriating posters. To rip Victor Nikiforov’s perfect head off his perfect body and tear him to shreds. Or to be in Hasetsu, to punch that irritating smile right off his face –

He lifts his head and stares down at his trembling hands, vision blurred by tears. _What the hell?_ The urge to hit out – to hurt Victor as badly as he is hurting – burns in his chest, but slowly it is being extinguished by shame.

Spitting out a few more bloodied petals, he shakily wipes his eyes and forces himself to his feet, then fetches Angelica and Eliza from their cage. Their tiny, vital warmth against his skin is a soothing contrast to the alien heat of the rage coursing beneath it, and he feels that rage soften and die as he cradles the two hamsters to his chest. Still, it takes a few minutes of stroking their soft fur and letting them run up and down his arms before he feels calm enough to pick up his phone and read Yuuri’s response.

_I’m really really sorry. I feel terrible about not telling you before but I was so scared it would all go away if I told anyone about it. Like when you’re a kid and you make a wish but it won’t come true if you tell anyone about it?_

_Wait, that sounds stupid._

_It’s true, though._

_I’m still trying to sort out my own feelings. I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like._

_Like coughing up your own insides at 2 AM, trying to be as quiet as possible so your parents don’t wake up,_ Phichit thinks. _Like knives in your lungs every time you see their face or hear their voice and not caring about the pain because everything about them is so good and so much that you can’t hold it all inside you. Like going from summer into winter every time they have to leave._

But he doesn’t say any of that, of course. His love for Yuuri is a love that leaves no room for him, a love his body cannot sustain. Yuuri must never know what that feels like.

_Sorry, I know this is weird and sudden and I shouldn’t be dumping it all on you at once. I just had to convince myself it was really happening and that it wasn’t some really bizarre dream like that one I had in junior year when I woke up convinced he was my personal chef and then when I realised he wasn’t I messed up my jumps for two weeks afterwards and you had to keep coming up with excuses so I wouldn’t have to tell Celestino what was actually wrong. Thanks, by the way._

Phichit smiles at the memory, anger ebbing again.

_But yeah, let me know what Ketty says._

_will do_

Tossing his phone back onto his bed, he sits down at his computer, head in hands. He’s supposed to be better at this. He’s supposed to be over the fact that, when it comes to Yuuri, Victor will always win. But the yellow roses prove that isn’t true.

He starts writing to Ketty, just to stop his brain from running in circles.

_Hey K,_

_Haven’t seen you in forever! How’s it going?_

_Remember that piece you composed for Yuuri a while back? He was really hoping you’d write another, only he’s such a dork he’s convinced you’re mad at him for not using the last one, so he’s making yours truly play go-between._

_Also he’s banging Victor Nikiforov –_

He sighs and deletes the line.

_He thought you should know he and Russia’s most eligible bachelor are now a thing, but he didn’t see fit to tell me –_

No good. He needs to get a grip, to let go of the last of his anger. He takes a deep breath.

_I’ve lost him._

_He’s got himself a boyfriend, and not only is it not me, it’s Victor freaking Nikiforov. That’s pretty important to him, of course, so he wanted you to somehow write it into the piece if you could, but don’t tell anyone. He says he doesn’t want people to know yet, but he’s gone and chosen ‘love’ as his theme, so…_

_I know you must be crazy busy, so no pressure if you don’t want to take this on as too, but I know how happy it would make Yuuri if you did._

_Thanks a bunch,_

_P_

…

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_Hi!_

_Can’t believe how long it’s been since I last saw you. I’m doing well, thanks._

_I’m really sorry about Yuuri. That must hurt. Wish I could give you a hug – it sucks being so far away from you two. Call me if you want to talk, ok? Don’t nurse that broken heart alone. You know I’m always here (and I mean always. What’s a time zone or 11 between friends?)_

_Look on the bright side – now you’re free to find a nice_ available _boy who doesn’t have an inconvenient obsession with Russia’s no-longer-most-eligible bachelor._

_Of course I’ll write our favourite dork another piece. I’ve been itching to do more composition, actually – I’ve been concentrating on performance, so I haven’t had much of a chance recently. I’ll dig out the old piece and see what I can get from it._

_Look after yourself. Love ya,_

_K_

He sends her a cheery thank you, and only mentions Yuuri to say that ‘our favourite dork will be delighted’. He wishes he could talk to her, but he knows he would end up telling her everything.

…

Days later, the new piece arrives in his inbox. He forwards it to Yuuri immediately, although it’s already midnight in Hasetsu.

Yuuri texts back in minutes; apparently, his college habit of staying up late and sleeping in hasn’t changed.

_He loves it! Tell Ketty she’s the best._

_what about u_

_ur the one skating to it, not Victor_

_or r u a pairs skater now_

_Not that you would have told me._ He scolds himself for the unwarranted savageness of the thought. He has to let Yuuri live his own life, to accept that he’s never getting Detroit back. Never getting Yuuri back.

There’s no reply for a while; Yuuri probably didn’t even listen to the piece before asking Victor’s opinion. _When are you going to learn to trust your own decisions, Yuuri?_

The ping of a text alert startles him.

 _It’s awesome! Thank you so much. Tell Ketty_ didi madloba _for me!_

_tell her urself u dork_

A sudden rush of exhaustion overcomes him and he leans back against the wall, eyes drooping shut. There are too many emotions swirling around inside him; he’s too tired to sort relief from doubt, guilt from fear, the remnants of anger from the last shards of betrayal.

He wakes in the half-light with a crick in his neck and the rotten taste of petals in his mouth, and his stomach sinks. Days when he wakes up thinking of the flowers before he thinks of Yuuri are the worst days.

He checks his phone to see if Yuuri has replied. No messages. He sighs and picks Angelica and Eliza out of his hair, but even after he returns them to their cage and flops back down on his bed, sleep won’t come; he is too afraid the sadness lying heavy and cold in his bones like snow will close over his throat and stifle him.

_…_

When the Grand Prix assignments come out, on the hottest day of the year so far, his heart gives a delirious leap as he realises both he and Yuuri are competing in the Cup of China. His whole body is suddenly light as a leaf, buoyed up by joy the pain in his chest can’t dampen. He’ll be skating alongside Yuuri in his first Grand Prix series – he refuses to believe it will also be his last – and not even the flowers can take that away.

…

They give it a good try. Perhaps it’s the mixture of nerves and excitement he feels at the thought of competing against Yuuri. Perhaps it’s the flood of speculation in the media about Yuuri and Victor’s relationship, the jealousy that still rises unbidden whenever he’s confronted by a picture of the two of them, the longing that tempers that jealousy as he sees the way they look at one another. Perhaps it’s the near-constant stream of messages between him and Yuuri – no replacement for Detroit, especially when half of them are about the latest adorable or embarrassing or wonderful thing Victor has done or said, but still enough to bring the petals bubbling to the surface. Whatever the reason, the attacks are becoming more and more frequent, and more and more difficult to hide from Celestino, from his family. They sap his strength and rob him of sleep, and practice has become torture. But he isn’t giving up.

He glances over the video once more, studying the way Victor’s weight shifts as he takes off into the quad toe loop, the positioning of his feet as he lands, perfect, clean, immortal. Not for the first time, he wishes it were anybody else but Victor. He wonders if he’ll ever get to see Yuuri land the quad toe this beautifully, and his chest throbs with the thought of it.

Setting down his phone and pushing the burn in his lungs to the back of his mind, he copies Victor yet again.

As soon as he takes off, he can tell this will be the best quad he’s ever done. He nails the landing and turns to Celestino, overjoyed. “Wasn’t that jump great? Did you get a good video of it?”

Celestino’s face falls. “Sorry, Phichit, I –”

Phichit could swear. He wants to take Celestino by the shoulders and shake him. _What if that was the last time I manage to land it,_ he wants to say. Wants to tell him how his whole body is burning with exhaustion – not the satisfying ache of a practice well done, but a tiredness that he knows will linger, never quite fading, until the next session brings it rushing back like the tide.

But he can’t let Celestino know that anything is wrong. “We have to post it online as soon as possible!” he exclaims, with just enough theatricality to cover the real dismay in his voice.

Celestino chuckles. “There’s plenty of time.”

Plenty of time before Skate America. Plenty of time for Phichit, less well-known than some of his competitors, to build his image, to show that he’s a force to be reckoned with. To prove that the boy from Thailand is not a curiosity or a novelty but a world-class athlete. That’s all he means.

But Phichit can’t help being reminded that time is something he has very little of. He finds himself gulping back tears, and turns away so that Celestino won’t notice. Getting that video uploaded is far more important than he can let on. He wants to show the world what he can do while he still can. Not for fans or fame or money, but because some day – in the far too near future – he will be gone, and the selfies and the skating videos will be all that remains.

…

Months later, as Phichit kneels on the cold floor of the Milwaukee hotel bathroom, vomiting dark blood and pale petals into the water, the shadow of that realisation looms over him. He supposes he should be grateful they’re not roses; the thorns in his lungs would easily have done for him by now. He’s lucky. Four years is a long time to last with his lungs filling inexorably with petals and his bones turning to wood. But it’s hard to be thankful when he is choking up his own insides.

A particularly violent spasm rakes fire across the lining of his lungs, and he blacks out for a second. When he comes to, he is lying face down and _he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t –_ His body convulses again, and a bloodied twig clatters against the tiles.

He stares at it in blank horror. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, what this means, the progression it signifies. But he can’t bring himself to look that truth in the face.

He has never been religious, but now he finds himself praying – praying to no-one in particular, sending the words out into the darkness beyond him with no idea whether they will be heard, but praying nonetheless. _Please_ , _just let me get through the short programme tomorrow. Don’t let me fail here. I have to – Yuuri – I have to…_ The rest of that thought ebbs away as he slides back into unconsciousness, overtaken by exhaustion and pain.

…

A sharp rapping on the door of his hotel room jerks him awake. “Phichit?” calls a cheery voice. “Time for warm-up! Don’t make me come in there and get you!”

He’s still slumped against the bathroom wall, blood and vomit and sickly-sweet rotten petals congealing on his clothes and on the floor. _I can’t possibly compete in this state._ But if he wants to skate alongside Yuuri, to make it to the final, he has to.

The thought of Yuuri cheering him on is enough for him to call back to Celestino, “Give me five!” He winces as the words rasp against the rawness in his throat. He’ll have to pass it off as a cold again, and hope Celestino doesn’t ask questions. The sketchier forums are ablaze with speculation as to why he’s been so under the weather lately; the kinder comments suggest tonsillitis and question the wisdom of his competing, while the more outlandish ones, the kind of nonsense he and Yuuri used to read for fun, mention gruesome and quite possibly fictional STIs he’d find hilarious if the truth weren’t so much worse.

He grimly surveys the state of the bathroom; there’s no time to clean it up now, but he can’t let the staff see it. _I’d probably get arrested for murder._ Nothing for it but to keep the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and sort it out after his skate – if he has the energy.

There’s not much he can do about the state of himself, not with Celestino knocking again, reminding him he’s going to miss practice time if he doesn’t hurry. He struggles into his kit and quickly runs a comb through his hair; there’s no time for makeup, no time even to brush his teeth and get rid of the vile taste of petals. He looks a sight, and he feels ready to collapse.

Celestino eyes him with concern as he steps into the corridor. “Are you feeling okay?”

Although the deception turns his stomach, he nods. There’s no way Celestino would let him compete if he knew the truth, and he _has_ to compete. He’s been working towards this for so long; he can’t let himself down now. Can’t let Yuuri down, or disappoint those who are looking to him to blaze a trail that only he can. “Yeah, rough night, that’s all,” he lies easily.

“All right, but take it easy in the warm-up, okay? Save your strength.”

He doesn’t need telling twice.

…

Leaving the ice after practice, he almost bumps into Guang-Hong. His friend is standing unmoving in the gate, his skate guards dangling forgotten from his hand as if something distracted him before he could put them on.

Guang-Hong startles when Phichit touches his shoulder. “Oh – Phichit – sorry –”

Slipping on his own skate guards, Phichit waves aside Guang-Hong’s apology, but Guang-Hong has already stopped paying attention. He’s staring straight ahead as if Phichit isn’t even there.

Phichit follows Guang-Hong’s gaze, and his face breaks into a grin as he sees Leo de la Iglesia a little way ahead of them, engaged in an animated discussion with his coach.

The longing in Guang-Hong’s eyes is painfully obvious.

He nudges Guang-Hong, who jumps again. “Go for it.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Just ask him.”

Guang-Hong colours, but keeps up his stubborn pretence. “Ask who what?”

“Ask Leo if he feels the same way.”

“Phichit, be quiet, he’ll _hear you_ ,” Guang-Hong says in an anguished whisper.

“Would it be so bad if he did? You want to know how he feels, don’t you?”

Guang-Hong sighs, defeated. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I mean, what if he doesn’t like me back?”

“Then I’ll take full responsibility for your broken heart, okay? But I’m not gonna stand here and watch you waste your chance.”

Guang-Hong looks at him strangely, and Phichit realises he’s let his grin slip. He hurriedly flashes Guang-Hong his most brilliant smile. “I’ll leave you to it.” Before Guang-Hong can reply, Phichit slips past him and out into the corridor.

…

Dressed in his kingly regalia, hair slicked back and make-up perfect to the last detail, Phichit feels a little better. No-one would know by looking at him that anything was wrong; as he steps out on the ice to the roar of the crowd, he almost feels like he might be able to forget, if only for a while. The cheers, the flashing cameras, the applause; all of it makes his heart lift and his spirit soar, and some of the pressure in his chest falls away as he settles into his starting position.

But as soon as the first notes sound, the pain comes flooding back twofold. It takes everything he has to move into his first jump, a triple axel, as if branches are not tearing at his chest, setting his lungs on fire.

There’s too much of Yuuri in the music. Ever since he first sat Yuuri down and made him watch _The King and the Skater_ , he hasn’t been able to hear the soundtrack without picturing the two of them in the title roles. Yuuri stepping hesitantly onto the ice and allowing himself to be guided forwards, one foot and then the other. _Now take my hands, come on! Right, left … slow down … Yes! yes, you did it!_

It was a silly enough daydream the first time; he was never going to surpass Yuuri, even before the flowers. Now, as he struggles to hold himself together through the three punishing minutes of his short programme, it’s nothing short of idiocy. Yuuri is there facing him on every turn, waiting at the landing of each jump, and the longing is agony. His chest threatens to split open as the buds swell and burst against his ribcage. He fights to keep his movements fluid and his smile in place.

Overcome for a moment, he slips coming out of his triple toe loop, and the shock of the fall jars his chest so badly that tears spring to his eyes. But he pulls himself up and back into his routine as if nothing has happened. _I can’t let him down._

It is a tremendous relief when, final step sequence complete, he moves into his finishing pose. The last strains of _Shall We Skate_ die away, replaced by an eruption of applause from the crowd barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears.

A treacherous cough builds in his throat; just when he can hold it back no longer, someone throws him a bouquet. He catches it gratefully, to another explosion of cheering. He can’t stand flowers now, even in the shop at home; their scent turns his stomach, and he can’t look at them without seeing petals crumpled and covered in blood. But he bends his head to the bouquet as if to kiss it, hiding his face as he chokes out the petals stuck in his throat. It’s a good thing the flowers are red.

With a final wave and a genuine grin – however much of a shambles his skate might have looked to the audience, he knows how hard he fought just to make it through – he heads over to the kiss and cry, where Celestino is waiting.

“I know you weren’t feeling your best, so well done for keeping it together,” Celestino smiles. “That quad toe was beautiful.”

His score – well below his personal best – puts him in last place so far, but Celestino isn’t discouraged. “If you’re on form for the free skate, I know you can get on that podium, Phichit.”

 _You wouldn’t have so much confidence if you’d seen me last night._ Nonetheless, he’s touched. “Thanks.”

Celestino’s grin fades. “You’re bleeding.”

Phichit’s heart thuds against his ribs, cold terror robbing his mind of the power to form any thought more complex than, _Shit. He knows._

“Did you bite your lip when you fell?”

Trying not to look too relieved, Phichit nods, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“Be careful out there. You’re still young, and I know you’ve bounced back from injury before, but I’d hate to see you miss out right when you’re hitting your stride. You’ve got such a bright future ahead of you.”

Guilt coils in Phichit’s stomach; he smothers it with a smile. “You might even say a _golden_ future.”

Celestino laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

…

He’s almost done sorting last night’s mess when his phone buzzes. Yuuri. He checks himself over in the mirror to make sure the last of the blood and the petals are gone, then picks up. “Hey.”

On the screen, Yuuri beams. His face is bright with exertion; the ice of the Hasestsu rink stretches empty and inviting behind him. “Just wanted to call to say well done – that was a really tough programme.”

Phichit laughs. “I was a _mess_ , Yuuri.”

“You were not! The way you picked yourself back up after that fall was amazing. And your quad toe was _perfect_. I know how hard you’ve been working on it – I’m so proud of you for pulling it off. I bet Celestino’s pleased, too.”

Yuuri’s praise floods through him like sunlight. He lets the feeling fill his chest even though he can feel new buds unfurling in the sudden warmth.

“He was pretty happy, yeah. My score wasn’t great, but he reckons I can still place.”

“Hey, scores aren’t everything. If you gave it your all –”

“What was that, Mr I-missed-my-PB-by-zero-point-three-marks, how-will-I-ever-face-Victor-Nikiforov-again?”

“Shh, he’ll _hear_ you –”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that over the sound of your _massive_ _hypocrisy_.”

Yuuri laughs ruefully as he runs a hand through his hair.

If only he were close enough for Phichit to reach out and push his hair back from his face for him. He can almost feel the softness of it against his fingers, smell the familiar cinnamon scent of his shampoo. Does Yuuri still use it? Do they even sell that brand in Japan, let alone Hasetsu?

“I guess I’m not the best person to be saying that. But take some advice from an old man –”

“Yuuri, you’re _three years_ older than me, for God’s sake –”

“– and try not to get too hung up on the numbers, okay?” The softness in his eyes makes Phichit’s knees go weak. “You know why I love watching you skate?”

Phichit’s heart skips a beat. He covers it with a mischievous grin. “Because I’m smoking hot, obviously. Next question.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, his mock disdain just as lovely as his affection. “You’re worse than Victor, and that takes some doing. What I’m _trying_ to say is, you always look like you’re having so much fun out there. We all do this because we love it, but you’re the only one who never forgets to show that.”

“I take it back, you _are_ an old man. A soppy old man at that,” Phichit says, to distract himself from the fact that Yuuri’s words are turning his insides to water. “Are you sure the old folks’ home will let you out for the Cup of China?”

“If you mean am I sure I’m going to absolutely wipe the floor with you, then yes.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to retort, but his attention is caught by something offscreen. The picture tips sideways as he turns away. Then he is back, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, break’s over, gotta go.” He pulls a face, but there’s a glow in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

Phichit ignores the tug in his chest. “Get back to practice, you slacker. I want you in top form for when I completely pulverise you in China.”

Yuuri just raises an eyebrow. “ _Laeo phop kan mai_ ,” he grins, and hangs up.

Phichit sits on the edge of the bed staring down at his phone, heart still racing. “I love you,” he tells the blank screen softly, as if Yuuri might somehow hear him. He sighs and flops back on the bed. _Moping around won’t get you through the free skate_ , he scolds himself, but it’s a long time before he can bring himself to get up and change into his pyjamas.

 _No wonder I fell for Yuuri and not the other way around,_ he thinks glumly as he glares at himself in the bathroom mirror. _I look like I just crawled out of a swamp_.

He takes a deep breath. _That’s enough of that._ Self-pity won’t help him skate better; what he needs right now is a distraction.

Half an hour later, when his skin has been exfoliated to within an inch of its life and his nails are painted the same blue as the accents on his _Terra Incognita_ outfit, he carefully selects a photo from the batch he’s just taken and uploads it. #freeskatefightback#zerotohero#podiumhereicome

For the first time in a long while, he sleeps through the night, undisturbed by flowers.

…

In the end, he misses the podium by a hair’s breadth. Celestino is disappointed – more in the scoring than in Phichit’s performance, for which he has only praise – and part of Phichit can’t help feeling the same way. _That was probably your last chance to win a Skate America medal,_ says the little voice at the back of his mind. But much more powerful is the voice which says _that was your best free skate so far, never mind what the judges think. The only way is up. You’re not out of the game just yet._

Besides, he can hardly begrudge Guang-Hong the bronze. Guang-Hong is beaming brighter than the flashes from the press cameras, brighter than the medal around his neck. As Leo steps up to claim his gold, Guang-Hong squeezes his hand tightly, and there is no mistaking the look that passes between them.

When he asks Guang-Hong later if the two of them are already dating, Guang-Hong turns bright red and begs him not to tell anyone.

“Would I?” he grins.

“I just don’t want it all over Instagram, okay?” Guang-Hong says, slightly pained. “I mean, no offence, but the word ‘secret’ isn’t really in your vocabulary.”

As his stomach lurches and pain sears through his chest, he has to make his excuses and hurry off before the flowers can prove just how well-acquainted Phichit really is with secrets. It’s daffodils this time, malformed and tinted brown. They leave an acrid taste in his mouth, and the stunted stems scratch at the lining of his chest like thorns.

As he gets to his feet again, his phone buzzes.

 _Well done! You blew us all away!_ There’s a picture attached of Yuuri’s family crowded around his laptop, smiling. His ballet teacher, Minako, is there too, along with the Nishigoris. And Victor is right in the centre, his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, Yuuri’s arm around his waist, the two of them inseparable.

He’d been hoping for another call from Yuuri, but Yuuri has his own life to live now, and he cannot ask too much of him. Yuuri’s absence plagues him like a phantom limb, and the flowers are budding faster than they ever did in Detroit, but as long as Yuuri is happy, Phichit can bear it.

 _Didn’t throw away my shot,_ he texts back. He stares at the photo – at Yuuri, confident, radiant, _proud_ – until the ache in his chest is too much, then slips his phone back into his pocket and heads off in search of Celestino.

…

In the fortnight before the Cup of China, he doesn’t make it through a single practice session without having to leave the ice abruptly, hands pressed over his mouth to stop the flowers giving him away. Each time he returns, his breathing is a little more laboured, his steps a little less steady. Celestino worries, of course, but it is far easier to allay those concerns with breezy lies than it is to silence his own fears.

…

“You guys seen Yuuri anywhere?” He’d been hoping to catch up with Yuuri when he arrived in Beijing, but he’s nowhere to be found, and – true to form – isn’t answering his phone.

Guang-Hong glances up from the card game he and Leo are playing at one of the tables in the hotel lobby. “He and Victor left a while ago. I think they were heading out to eat?”

“Great, thanks!” Phichit says, even as his heart sinks. How is he supposed to find out which restaurant they’re in? There must be hundreds in this district alone. _And Victor’s with him. Of course Victor’s with him._

At least looking for Yuuri will give him something to do. He pulls on his jacket and mask and, with a wave to Guang-Hong and Leo, steps out into the neon-lit streets.

The longer he wanders through the bright, busy alleys, the more discouraged he becomes. Say he finds Yuuri; what then? Maybe Yuuri won’t even want to see him. He’s out with Victor, after all. _I should go back. This is stupid. I can’t gatecrash his date just because I miss him –_

His heart jolts as he catches sight of Yuuri through the window of a hotpot restaurant. He’s nestled against Victor, snug and happy, and Phichit finds himself torn between leaving them to it and following the tug of his heart, a compass needle always pointing him towards Yuuri.

He hesitates long enough that Victor looks up and sees him, and waves – not the polite wave of an almost-stranger, but an enthusiastic greeting, as if he’s genuinely excited to see Phichit.

Shocked into smiling, Phichit waves back uncertainly. He’s never spoken to Victor except in passing, on the rare occasions when their paths have crossed at competitions. He assumed Victor didn’t really know who he was. But now Victor is beaming like Phichit is an old friend, and beckoning him to join them inside.

He composes his face into a mostly genuine smile, tugs down his mask and hurries into the restaurant.

“Yuuri! So this is where you were eating,” he grins.

Yuuri’s face lights up, sending familiar warmth spreading through Phichit’s body. He badly wants to hug him, but he’s very aware of Victor’s presence, Victor’s arm resting lightly on Yuuri’s shoulder. There’s nothing possessive about it; it reminds him of the casual affection his parents show each other without thinking. A cold shock runs through him, cancelling out all the warmth. _I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong._ Victor is the one who belongs at Yuuri’s side now; Phichit has invaded a space not meant for him anymore. His breath catches on the sadness of that knowledge and he feels his face start to crumple, sees concern flicker in Yuuri’s eyes.

Then he has an idea.

“Hey, do you mind if I invite Ciao Ciao? You want to see him, don’t you?” He’s already dialling Celestino’s number, leaving Yuuri – who looks less than keen – no time to respond. _This is for your sake, Yuuri_. Left to his own devices, Yuuri will most likely spend the rest of his career awkwardly avoiding Celestino, and Celestino will spend the rest of Phichit’s career asking him how Yuuri is doing. If there’s anything he can do to repair that relationship, he has to at least try.

But he knows he’s inviting Celestino more for his own sake than for Yuuri’s. With Celestino there, he can pretend he belongs; without him, he is simply an unwelcome guest, whatever Victor’s smile might say.

Yuuri still looks nervous at the prospect of seeing Celestino. Phichit could kick himself for being so selfish. He can’t really un-invite Celestino now; the only thing he can do is invite more people and hope that will put less pressure on Yuuri, not more.

He texts Leo, and when Leo asks whether Guang-Hong can come too, he allows himself a quiet moment of triumph. They would have found each other eventually, but he sees no point in their waiting. Time is a luxury; the two of them deserve to spend it being happy together.

Things are awkward between Yuuri and Celestino at first, as he knew they would be, and every time Yuuri looks down at the table or clutches Victor’s hand a little tighter than normal, Phichit’s chest constricts with guilt. But gradually – perhaps because of the easy-going presence of Leo and Guang-Hong, perhaps because the alcohol is flowing freely – they all start to relax. Some of them more than others; it isn’t long before Celestino is almost asleep on the table. “Hang in there, Ciao Ciao!” Phichit says cheerfully, snapping a picture.

Victor, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, starts mumbling about how hot it is in the restaurant. Before anyone can stop him, he struggles out of his shirt and envelops Yuuri in a sloppy embrace. Yuuri’s expression of shock is priceless; it’s also cute as hell. Too cute not to be photographed, and _far_ too cute not to be shared.

He regrets it the next day when the others see the photo and berate him for uploading it. Or rather, Leo and Guang-Hong berate him. Yuuri says nothing to him directly, but he can hear him fretting to himself about how badly it will reflect on him if his performance isn’t up to scratch.

A stab of guilt goes through him, followed by the twist of roots around his ribs, so violent that he stumbles.

Celestino catches his shoulder. “Woah, careful there, Phichit! Can’t have you tripping over your own feet before you even get on the ice.”

“Sorry, Ciao Ciao,” he grins, allowing himself to be led off to warm up. Although he knows he should apologise to Yuuri, he suspects doing so now – with Yuuri already a mess of nerves – would only worsen matters. Besides, he can already feel the buds pulsing beneath his skin like some grotesque second heart, dangerously close to the surface. He is afraid concentrating on anything but skating (Yuuri, in other words, because what else is there?) will bring them bursting through.

So he pushes his guilt to the back of his mind, and makes it through practice without incident. He finds himself impatient for the real performance; the pain in his chest has faded to the point where it’s the faintest it’s been for weeks, and he can no longer sense the pressure of the buds against his skin.

By the time he finally steps out onto the ice for his short programme, revelling in being the first to perform, he feels invincible, untouchable. The audience have no-one to compare him against; the ice is his blank canvas, and the picture he paints will be so striking no-one who sees it will be able to forget it.

Excitement and pride course through him as the first notes of ‘Shall We Skate?’ begin to play. _Many people have skated to this music, but I’ll overwrite that history. This music is mine!_

At the back of his mind is the knowledge that Yuuri – third in the order – is probably watching him backstage, but for once the thought of Yuuri doesn’t overwhelm him.

He’s in control, he’s on top of the world, he has the whole audience under his spell.

Then, just as he’s moving into the quad toe loop, he catches sight of a Thai flag somewhere in the crowd. The flash of pride and guilt that goes through him is enough for the flowers to drag him down for just long enough that he doesn’t fly like he should, and instead comes crashing down, the ice hard and harsh against his outstretched hands.

He moves reflexively to his feet and back into his routine almost without breaking rhythm. He’s not going to be kept down that easily.

For the rest of his skate, he holds his head high and lets himself soar on the cheers of the crowd. When it’s announced that he’s scored a new personal best, Celestino claps him on the back with an enthusiastic, “Bravo!”

 _Take that, you stupid flowers,_ he thinks smugly. This illness hasn’t got him yet, and he’ll see to it that it doesn’t do so for a very long time.

He feels a twinge of jealousy as Guang-Hong, next to perform, lands a clean quad toe loop. But he’s too mesmerised by Guang-Hong’s elegant performance to waste time on useless comparisons, and in any case, he’s happy to see a friend doing well. _I’m not letting you beat me to the podium this time, though._

Then it’s Yuuri’s turn, and he’s glad that Celestino and Guang-Hong, who has just come through, are concentrating on Yuuri’s performance and not on him; he’s learnt, over the years, to mask his feelings for Yuuri, but at times like this he can’t stop them overflowing.

“Wow,” he says softly, unable to articulate the rush of love inside him any other way. There has always been an irresistible beauty to Yuuri’s skating, but this routine is something else. His mind flashes back to pole classes in Detroit. Desire pools in his belly, and he sighs Yuuri’s name without thinking.

Luckily, the others are too intent on Yuuri’s skate to hear him, and in any case, Phichit isn’t sure he’d care if they had noticed. He’s too intoxicated with Yuuri for anything else to matter.

The score that is announced after Yuuri’s performance is, rightly, a personal best.

“Amazing, he’s never scored that high before,” he says in wonderment, a fierce pride kindling in his chest.

Celestino mistakes the softness in his voice for fear. “Don’t worry,” he chuckles. “The free skate is where it counts, and he’s not used to being the one to beat.”

And suddenly he _is_ afraid. He’s seen Yuuri buckle under pressure before, and Celestino is right – Yuuri probably doesn’t know how to handle being in the top spot right now.

 _He’ll be fine – more than fine. He’ll be great_. _The last thing he needs is for you to doubt him._ That doesn’t stop tension knotting in his stomach as memories of the Sochi final resurface unbidden.

Yuuri’s voice cracking in interviews as he struggled to keep it together. The jagged edges of anger slashing through like the claws of a cornered cat whenever Phichit broached the topic. The dull, defeated tone Yuuri adopted in practice until he finally told Phichit he was leaving.

Yuuri’s words, the awful flat tone in which he delivered them, are so painfully imprinted in Phichit’s memory that he feels the ghost of the old agony reawakening in his chest, new and dangerous. He has to find something else, anything else, to focus on quickly before he makes himself sick with it.

“Leo’s performance has been really polished ever since the first event,” he says aloud, forcing himself to concentrate on Leo’s figure on the screen. _He’s switched things up even more since Skate America._

But he can still hear the words _I’m leaving, Phichit, I’m going home_ , and his own reply, _I thought this was home_ , ringing in his ears so clearly that when a voice behind him says, “This programme really maximises Leo’s strengths,” he almost doesn’t realise it as Yuuri’s.

He wants to throw his arms around Yuuri and never let him go. He wants to whisper in Yuuri’s ear everything Yuuri’s skate made him feel. But he couldn’t do that even without Victor standing behind Yuuri, beaming proudly.

Instead, Phichit grins and says, “Your skate was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since I last looked in the mirror.”

Yuuri snorts.

Phichit’s heart drops just a little when he sees Leo’s score. “Ah, Leo beat me too, damn it.” Of course he wants his friends to do well. _But if I don’t manage to get silver_ …

“He didn’t beat my beautiful Yuuri,” Victor boasts, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s middle and resting his head on Yuuri’s shoulder with a playful softness that makes Phichit’s heart clench.

Yuuri shoots him a look, and Victor, suddenly chastened, turns to Phichit with an embarrassed grin.

“Sorry, Phichit, that was pretty tactless of me.”

“It’s fine.” It’s honestly kind of funny to discover how little Victor resembles the aloof ice prince of his jealous imagining. _Yuuri wasn’t exaggerating when he said Victor wasn’t good with words._

Any awkwardness that remains is buried in the horrified yet fascinated silence that reigns as Chris – the last of them to skate – makes his way onto the ice and launches into a routine so risqué he’s surprised the judges are even allowing it. “The ice looks soaking wet,” Phichit says weakly, half-expecting Chris is to somehow produce a collapsible pole from his skin-tight costume. The audience are loving it, but it doesn’t move Phichit the way Yuuri’s skate did.

Chris’s score is just shy of Phichit’s, putting Phichit in fourth – and Yuuri in first.

Victor is ecstatic; Yuuri just looks shell-shocked. Phichit isn’t sure what to say, either. He is torn – so full of pride in Yuuri he could barely speak even if he had the right words, but terrified, too. Terrified for Yuuri and the pressure he is under, and terrified for himself. _What if I can’t do enough?_ The gap from fourth to second, the chasm he has to bridge if he wants to make it to the final alongside Yuuri, is suddenly nauseatingly huge.

Still, he’s got to say _something_. He puts a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, looks him directly in the eye, and says, “I’m gunning to pass you in the free programme, Yuuri.”

He knows he’s got it right when Yuuri nods, smiling in that defiant way of his that says, _You’re on._

…

When he next sees Yuuri, they’re on their way to warm-ups. Phichit is half-moving through his programme as he walks down the hall, his arms threading through the air as if he’s already out on the ice. He catches sight of Yuuri out of the corner of his eye, and the leap his heart does every time he sees Yuuri becomes a dive.

He knows that look. The too-bright smile wobbling as he tries to stifle a yawn, the droop of his shoulders, the slight but telling heaviness to his footsteps.

Yuuri hasn’t slept.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Yuuri like this; he doesn’t remember Yuuri ever sleeping well before a competition. But the stakes are so high here, both for Yuuri and for Victor.

 _And for you_ , says the unhelpful voice. _If you don’t pull yourself up to second –_

 _I’ll know I gave the best performance of my career,_ he shoots back. He can’t afford to doubt himself.

He’s still nervous. But while Yuuri’s nerves pull him down, trapping him in the tangles of his own mind, Phichit’s own nerves fuel him. He’s skating fourth today; by the time he takes the ice at last, he’s so full of energy and excitement and impatience he can’t stay still.

There’s a moment, just before he steps out onto the rink, when doubt returns. _What if it all ends here?_

 _I’m not gonna let that happen,_ he promises, gliding out onto the ice to cheers from the crowd. _I have a lot still to do if I’m gonna become Thailand’s future._ However short his own future may be, if he can make his mark here, his legacy will shape things for years to come. He’ll be the one generations of young skaters look up to; they’ll carry his dream forward long after he’s gone.

But only if he lives up to his potential. _Chris and Yuuri are always ahead of me. The only way I can get ahead is to put my quads in the second half for more points._ Caution will get him nowhere; playing it safe is no longer an option.

Determination kindles a fire within him – not the kind that hurts and hinders, but the kind that fuels him, drives him onwards. _Watch and learn._ I’m _the one who’ll advance to the Grand Prix Final._

For a few crucial minutes, everything is as effortless as dreaming as the applause from the crowd and the familiar strains of ‘Terra Incognita’ weave together and lift him above all the things holding him back. If only he could stay out on the ice forever, he would be immortal.

Each time he launches into a jump, he wills himself to stay in flight forever, but each time he is brought back down with a bittersweet inevitability. His landings are unwelcome but flawless – a quad toe as clean and light as any of Victor’s, a quad-double toe combination with all the energy of a New Year’s firework. And like a firework, he is determined to blaze as brightly as he can in the time he has left, to give the audience – the _world_ – a show they’ll never forget.

_It’s something only I can do, not copying anyone else._

As the music moves inexorably towards its end, the fire builds within him, no longer a warm, steady flame but a wildfire, burning out of control and ripping through his lungs and muscles and veins with a ferocity so intense and cruel he knows he won’t be able to stay on his feet much longer.

The music ends just in time; he holds the final pose for as long as he can bear, dripping with sweat and panting for oxygen, every laboured breath like inhaling hot ash. Then he collapses back onto the ice, grateful for the shock of the cold hard surface beneath him that keeps him from sliding into unconsciousness. His body is well past its limit. As he staggers to his feet again, he wonders how much longer he will be able to keep this up now he is living on the thin ice of borrowed time, whether he will at least be allowed to make a graceful exit or whether he will crash out in disgrace.

But the fear that grips him melts away as he reaches the kiss and cry and Celestino pulls him into a warm congratulatory hug. Today, at least, the prospect of disaster is nothing but a faint shadow on the horizon. In its place is the triumph of a season’s best that places him at the top of the rankings.

He punches the air, overcome with elation. “Please root for me in the Grand Prix Final!” he grins, leaning in towards the cameras.

Celestino’s vice from behind him brings him back to earth with a bump. “Hey, you don’t know if you’ll make it yet.”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Flustered and deflated, swamped suddenly by exhaustion, he sinks back onto the bench, clutching his mascot – a hamster plushie half the size of him – for comfort. Chris and Yuuri are still to skate; they could easily knock him into third place and out of the running for the final. Even if he does manage to cling onto second, he’ll still have to wait until after the Rostelcom Cup to see whether he’s made it.

Overwhelmed by the clamours of _what if,_ he buries his face in the plushie. But not for long; he has questions to field, interviews to give.

As Chris’s routine ends, Celestino puts a hand on his arm and says, “Come on, let’s go.”

In the skaters-only area, a few staff members stand around looking up at the wall-mounted screen. As Phichit enters, the camera cuts to the final skater making his way onto the ice.

Yuuri.

Phichit’s heart thuds against his ribs in fear as he sees the redness of Yuuri’s eyelids, the half-smudged tear tracks on his cheeks. He’s never seen Yuuri cry before a skate – after, frequently, and occasionally during, but never _before_. His first impulse is to rush after Yuuri, to follow him out onto the ice and hug him as tightly as he can. _Something must have happened while I was skating, and I couldn’t be there for him._ His stomach drops. What if Yuuri’s had bad news again about someone back home?

He feels a rush of gratitude at the thought that he at least had Victor with him. _I hope he was more use than Ciao Ciao was last year._ He glances guiltily up at Celestino, who is watching Yuuri with concern tinged with curiosity.

Following Celestino’s gaze, he realises Yuuri is avoiding making eye contact with Victor, who is wearing the guiltiest expression Phichit has ever seen on a human face.

So much for Victor being better at handling an upset Yuuri. _I’m gonna_ end _you, Nikiforov._ He’s halfway to the door before Celestino’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“Hey, Phichit, where are you off to? You’re going to miss Yuuri’s programme.”

“I’m going to give that idiot Nikiforov a piece of my mind. I mean, look at him, he must have done something to upset Yuuri.” He gestures to the screen, where the camera is lingering on Victor’s shamefaced expression. “Dunno why he thought he was worthy of being Yuuri’s coach.”

Celestino chuckles. “I don’t know whether to be flattered that you think so little of my replacement, or terrified of getting on your bad side. But I’d let Yuuri handle this himself if I were you. You saw his free skate – he’s really blossomed these past few months, and I think _that idiot Nikiforov_ probably deserves a little credit for helping him on his way.”

Phichit sighs. He should have more faith in Yuuri; whatever’s happened between him and Victor, Yuuri will deal with it like the professional he is.

The camera cuts back to Victor, and something guard-dog-like in Phichit’s brain growls, hackles raised. Then the screen is full of Yuuri again, and there’s no room for anyone or anything else in Phichit’s thoughts as Ketty’s rippling piano melody begins to pour from the speakers and Yuuri is transformed.

All the tension melts off him as he spreads his hands and turns his face to the sky, a bird taking flight. Phichit’s heart breaks with the beauty of it, the effortless grace. As Yuuri takes off into his first jump, Phichit is afraid he’ll never come down, that he’s lost him forever. Then Yuuri lands – lightly, cleanly, as if the ice is paper and he weighs no more than a butterfly.

“He’s unusually relaxed today,” Celestino murmurs, but Phichit doesn’t respond. There are no words rich enough, powerful enough to encompass Yuuri’s glory, no way to express how, watching Yuuri, he feels himself shatter into a thousand pieces and come back together again brighter and better than before.

Words would only be a distraction; he couldn’t bear to miss a second as Yuuri lays bare his heart on the ice. A quad sal, a camel spin, a triple loop, all flowing into one another so naturally, so spontaneously that it seems absurd to separate and name them, as absurd as trying to categorise the individual ripples in a stream or the wingbeats of a wild bird.

It is a shock when Yuuri touches down on his triple axel. Phichit can almost feel the cold of the ice against his own skin as Yuuri puts out a hand, breaking the flow for an instant.

Then it’s behind him, like a bad dream, and he sails onwards into a triple flip. If it weren’t for the ache in his chest, like the echo of a gunshot, Phichit would think he’d imagined the misstep. There is no trace of anxiety or self-recrimination in Yuuri’s face; he moves into a combination jump as if his routine so far has been better than flawless.

It’s slightly over-rotated, but again, Yuuri doesn’t react as Phichit was half-expecting him to. There’s something ethereal about the calm that radiates off him, evident even through the screen.

Phichit wishes he could watch from the audience, but the slight catch under his ribs with every breath reminds him why that’s a bad idea. If this skate is what breaks him – if he has another attack, one he can’t suppress – then he doesn’t want it to happen out there, in front of the crowds and the cameras.

His chest tightens uncomfortably as Yuuri nails another combination and floats through his final step sequence, and he has to regulate his breathing so Celestino won’t hear him struggling.

Not that Celestino is paying him any attention; he’s just as engrossed in Yuuri’s performance. Who wouldn’t be, when the figure moving soundlessly over the ice in front of them seems more than human?

Phichit smiles inwardly. He’d thought he was past the teenage days of hero-worshipping Yuuri as some kind of higher being whose skating really was as effortless as it looked. But even though he’s well aware of the immense effort Yuuri puts into a performance like this, it’s hard not to slip back into that unquestioning adulation when Yuuri is so magnificent. He shows no sign of tiring; there’s no tightness in his face, no droop in his shoulders, even after the slips that would once have sent him spiralling into defeatism.

Phichit grudgingly admits Celestino is right. Yuuri really has changed under Victor’s tutelage.

Just as his mind turns to Victor, Yuuri launches into a soaring final quad, and Phichit’s mouth falls open. _That’s not a quad toe. That’s a flip_.

Victor Nikiforov’s signature move.

Yuuri doesn’t quite land it, but Phichit couldn’t care less. _Attempting a jump that difficult at the end of your programme? That’s a bold move, Yuuri._

‘Bold’ isn’t a word he would have associated with Yuuri before. Determined, resilient, brave, but not _bold_ , not until Victor became his coach, and Yuuri blossomed like a light-starved plant moved into the sun.

That quad flip is a declaration, a challenge, a question. As Victor runs to meet Yuuri – who skates towards him as if it would kill him to be apart from Victor for another second – Phichit wonders for a wild moment whether Victor is about to ask a question of his own.

But instead of dropping to one knee, Victor launches himself at Yuuri just as Yuuri reaches the gate. He kisses him square on the lips, and his momentum knocks Yuuri of balance so that they both tumble onto the ice.

It’s not the kiss. It’s Victor’s hand cradling the back of Yuuri’s head as they fall, so he won’t hurt himself on the harshness of the ice. It’s the look in Yuuri’s eyes as they finally part and he gazes up at Victor without reproach, without shock, only amusement that tinges the deep, abiding love beneath.

Phichit darts into the corridor, hands clamped over his mouth, as petals spill up into his throat. He can already feel the warm blood dripping through his fingers. He staggers, barely making it to the toilets before his legs give out.

He hardly notices what the petals look like, beyond the fact they might once have been white; there’s too much blood, too much pain. For a moment, there is nothing else. Then the last of the petals is gone.

Something has been torn out of him, and although the wound is still raw, the pain so searing he can barely breathe, there is a new lightness to his body that he doesn’t understand. Loss has never felt like this before; it is supposed to drag him down in pursuit of the thing lost, not to liberate him. But perhaps he hasn’t lost anything after all – or at least nothing that was his to keep in the first place.

_Is this what letting go feels like?_

Not letting go of Yuuri, or Yuuri’s friendship, or even his love for him. None of those are options; he wouldn’t choose them even if he could. But if he can let go of the false hope that has been treacherously pretending to sustain him, all the while sapping his strength; if he can survive this letting go, perhaps it will buy his body some time to heal, buy him some time to live.

Taking a few careful breaths, he wipes the last of the blood away, thankful none of it has got on his costume. There’d be no explaining it away this time.

As he heads back down the corridor, he collides with Celestino, who grips him by the shoulders and eyes him with concern. “Where’ve you been? The medal ceremony’s about to start!”

“Did Yuuri win?” The flowers gave him no time to wait for Yuuri’s score. _But that performance – even with deductions for the falls –_

“What?” Celestino gives his shoulder a shake. “No, Phichit, _you_ did.”

It takes a moment to sink in.

 _I beat Yuuri. I beat_ Yuuri. _That can’t be right, can it?_

“But how? You saw his skate –”

“I saw him fall several times, whereas I saw you skate flawlessly. No-one deserves that medal more than you. Speaking of which, we’d better hurry.” Keeping a hand on Phichit’s shoulder as if afraid he’ll make a break for it again, Celestino steers him back out into the brightness and clamour of the rink.

A roar goes up from the crowd as he emerges to the flashing of cameras, and a jolt goes through his chest. They’re cheering for _him_.

 _Smile for the cameras_ , he thinks, panicked. _You’re the gold medallist._

Then, amongst the sea of red Chinese flags, he catches sight of the familiar stripes of the Thai tricolour – one at first, then another, and another – and a real smile breaks across his face as he lifts his arms to wave at the crowd.

As an official guides him over to the podium, the ground beneath his feet seems to disappear. He is in danger of floating away; the only thing stopping him is the woman’s hand on his arm.

Then he’s standing at the top of the world, with Yuuri beaming beside him.

“You did it, Phichit. You did it.” Yuuri throws his arms around him.

Phichit’s whole body sings as he leans into Yuuri’s embrace, heart pounding. “No, _we_ did it,” he smiles. “You were _amazing,_ Yuuri.”

He feels a hand on his back, and reluctantly breaks away to see Chris reaching around Yuuri to congratulate him.

“Well done, Phichit.”                                       

“Congratulations to you too, Chris,” he grins back.

There is a flurry of hugging and back-patting; Chris kisses both of them on the cheek, and, on impulse, Phichit leans in and kisses Yuuri on the cheek too.

He smells of cinnamon and a citrus aftershave Phichit doesn’t recognise, and his skin is hot under Phichit’s lips.

“What was that for?” Yuuri asks with a surprised laugh. They’ve never been shy in their affection, but they’ve never kissed.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s International Kiss Yuuri Day,” Phichit grins, glorying in the blush that burns across Yuuri’s cheeks. “Couldn’t let Chris and Victor have all the fun.”

The stadium falls silent, and the official frantically signals for them to take their proper places on the podium.

Yuuri steps back into position, the imprint of his touch still warm on Phichit’s back, as the announcer calls, “In third place, representing Switzerland, Christophe Giacometti!”

Someone – several someones – in the crowd lets out a whistle, and Chris blows an extravagant kiss in their general direction before leaning down to receive his medal. And his bouquet.

Phichit’s stomach drops. Of course there were going to be flowers. Chrysanthemums, gaudy red and yellow blooms, their overpowering scent familiar from too many nights huddled on the bathroom floor, trying not to wake Yuuri as he coughed up those same petals.

The announcer’s voice pulls him back into the present. “In second place, representing Japan, Katsuki Yuuri!”

Warmth and light flood through him as Yuuri waves at the crowd, dazed. As the bright silver medal is draped around his neck, Yuuri shakes the official’s hand with an earnest joy that stabs right through Phichit’s chest.

_Do you see this, Victor? Do you understand how precious Yuuri is? How good? You have to protect him. Please._

“In first place, representing Thailand, Phichit Chulanont!”

A wave of euphoria lifts him, and he seeks out the Thai flags between the rows and rows of beaming faces as the medal is lowered around his neck. Even with the flowers in his arms, he can’t stop smiling,

But as soon as the first official pictures have been taken, he thrusts the bouquet at a startled Yuuri. “You came in second, that means you get two.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Yuuri laughs, but – to Phichit’s relief – he takes them anyway. The smell of them is making him sick; even the feel of them in his hands, the roughness of the stems against his skin, is unpleasant enough to sour his happiness. They suit Yuuri better, anyway; the radiance of him matches the flowers’ brightness.

“They’re messing up my colour scheme,” he grins, and leans in towards the camera, medal between his teeth.

The gold medal. His first, and probably his last.

 _Stop that._ Right here, right now, it doesn’t matter whether this is to be his only gold or his first of twenty. He is standing here with a _gold medal_ around his neck and his arm around his best friend, the love of his life (who looks _very_ good with a silver medal draped against his own chest. Silver really makes Yuuri’s eyes sparkle.) How many people get to experience that even if they live for eighty, ninety, a hundred years?

…

The days between the Cup of China and the Rostelcom Cup are infuriating and painful. When the competition finally arrives, Celestino lets him slack off practice to watch; by Yuuri’s turn, he is a wreck, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops his phone on the ice. But he can’t miss this.

When Yuuri squeaks through ahead of Michele after the free skate, Phichit collapses against the barrier in relief. It takes him a minute to gather himself enough to dash off a message.

_kinda hate u for makin me worry like that but well done!!!_

He doesn’t hear back straight away, nor is he expecting to. But when he picks up his phone at the end of practice, there’s a text waiting.

_Sorry! But congrats to you as well! We both made it!_

_gpf here we come_ , he texts back. _barcelona wont know whats hit em._

…

“By the way, Phichit, have you thought about your exhibition skate?”

He nods. “Actually, I was gonna ask if you’d film it for me, since I probably won’t get to perform it.”

Celestino gives him a friendly thump on the shoulder. “Course you will! But it’s a good idea to film it anyway. Building your Instagram empire?”

Phichit just smiles. This one won’t be going online just yet, but Celestino doesn’t need to know that. He gets the music ready and hands his phone to Celestino, then skates out into the middle of the rink.

When he’s done, Celestino is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then a smile spreads across his face. “Well, that’s very different from what I was expecting, but that’s no bad thing. I hope you have a chance to show it off.”

…

Leaning against the wall of the hotel bar, he stares down at the screen in his hand, willing it to change. _C’mon. Pick up. Any second now…_ But this call, like the dozen before it, goes unanswered. He can’t stop disappointment from curdling the excitement of being in a new city; he’d hoped to spend his first evening here with Yuuri, but Yuuri, apparently, had other plans. Well, no point in hanging around. _I can’t wait any longer._ “I’m going to Sagrada Familia!” he calls to Celestino, who cheerfully slurs back, “Just go!” with a benevolent wave of his hand.

The gesture fills him with an unexpected tide of emotion, and he hurries out of the hotel before anyone notices the tears pricking at his eyes. _I’m gonna miss you, Ciao Ciao._ He’s going to miss everything about this – not just skating itself, but the rush of performing, the glitz and glamour of competition, the camaraderie, the _adventure_ of it all.

Only one thing to do about that. Drying his eyes quickly, he slips on an almost-genuine grin and heads towards the cathedral, determined not to waste a moment.

Barcelona by night is beautiful, but freezing. He tries not to dwell on the way the cold sinks deep into his bones. _I was in Bangkok this morning. Of course Spain in December feels cold._ But he knows that’s only part of the reason.

A quick appraisal of the photos he’s taken so far, though, reassures him that the devastation of the hanahaki is still well-hidden by his careful make-up. There are only two people who might not be convinced, and both of them are far away – his mother in Bangkok, and Yuuri in his own world. _Well, his and Victor’s._ Without make-up, the hollowness of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes would give him away, but with it on he can fool anyone into seeing what he wants them to see: Thailand’s rising star, fresh-faced and perfectly healthy, ready to tackle his first Grand Prix of many.

The sour taste of deceit rises to the back of his throat. He forces an extra-bright grin and snaps another photo, trying to push the thoughts away, trying to silence that voice which asks gleefully _are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Are you really, really sure?_ The voice has only grown louder since he reached the final. Lying to a few people who meant everything to him was bad enough; deceiving the whole of his beloved Thailand is almost too much to bear. He’s got sponsorship deals, been on national television, shaken hands with the _Prime Minister_ … And for what?

He gags on the slimy petals as they try to force their way out. _Enough._ He swallows hard, and takes a swig of water and another defiant selfie. _I haven’t done anything wrong._

 _Wrong_ would be giving up before the final and letting everyone down – his family, Celestino, Thailand, Yuuri. _Wrong_ would be repaying everyone’s faith and support with a substandard performance, or no performance at all.

The voice has nothing to say to that, and, slowly, the elation of being in a beautiful, foreign city, on the cusp of the biggest event of his life, comes trickling back until he is swept up in the tide of it and the smile in the photos is no longer forced.

Still, he avoids looking back at the ones he’s already taken, all of them slightly off-centre as if leaving space for someone who isn’t there.

…

During practice, he is able to put everything else aside and focus on his routine, but as the rink empties and the wide expanse of the day’s remaining hours yawns ahead of him, he slips dangerously close to despair. Yuuri and Victor have already disappeared off into the city together, leaving Phichit with no-one to keep him company. There’s Celestino, but – much as he loves his coach – he doesn’t want to spend the entire day trailing around after him like some kid with no friends his own age.

He’s begun to resign himself to a hollow afternoon of selfies and sightseeing – his fans will be expecting updates, and he might as well make someone happy – when he’s startled by a hand on his shoulder.

“Looks like our friends have ditched us for each other,” a voice purrs in his ear. “What say we do the same?”

He turns, and is surprised not to see Chris follow that blatant suggestion with a wink.

“I thought you had a boyfriend – that ice dancer, right?” he asks politely, shifting so that Chris’s hand slips off. He’s not in the mood for Chris’s casual flirting.

Instantly, Chris steps back, apologetic. “You’re quite right,” he says, with surprising softness. “Masumi and I are in an open relationship, but that’s no excuse for making you uncomfortable. Forgive me.” There is something troubled in his expression that Phichit can’t decipher.

“Nah, it’s okay.” He smiles to show he means it, and shuffles his feet, not really knowing what else there is to say. After a beat of awkwardness, Phichit turns to go.

“Phichit. Wait.”

He stops, caught by the note of uncertainty in Chris’s voice.

“If you want to go for lunch, the offer still stands… Nothing implied, of course,” Chris adds, slightly flustered.

“Now _that’s_ suspicious. Gonna poison me to put me off my game?”

“Are you suggesting I need to resort to nefarious means to beat you, Chulanont?” The glint returns to Chris’s eyes.

“Maybe I am, Giacometti.”

Chris pouts. “I take it you don’t want to have lunch with me, then.”

The thought of the empty hours ahead makes him shudder. “Okay, but if anything happens, I’m telling Yuuri you tried to poison me.”

“Understood. Now, how do you feel about seafood? I know a place…”

…

Without the Casanova act, Chris’s easy-going company is enough to dull the familiar ache in Phichit’s chest. It doesn’t stop the ever-present tickle in his throat becoming a full-blown cough – he has to excuse himself halfway through his sundae to go and get rid of the petals discreetly – but it’s infinitely preferable to being alone all day.

“Know what’s good for a cough?” Chris says as Phichit hurries back to the table.

Although Chris has been relatively restrained throughout the meal, Phichit’s still half-expecting him to come out with some nonsense like ‘blowjobs’, so it’s a pleasant surprise when Chris continues, “Steam. I hear the hotel has a pretty nice sauna.” He pauses. “Only if you’d be comfortable with that, of course.”

“Oh, I think I could cope.” He’s trying to sound breezy, but his throat is agonisingly raw, and the words come out too rough.

“Christ, Phichit, you sound like a sixty-a-day smoker. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says quickly, and finishes up the last of the sundae, grateful for the cooling sensation of the ice cream against the burn in his throat. “Let’s go.”

…

As the sauna’s heat thaws his frozen body and the steam soothes the worst of the pain in his lungs, he regrets never having tried this before. It can’t cure him – the dull throbbing behind his ribs is a harsh reminder of that – but he’s breathing more easily than he’s been able to in months. Maybe, just maybe, he can keep this in check.

Then Chris lays a cautious hand on his arm.

“Phichit. When you left the table… You were throwing up, weren’t you?”

Phichit’s stomach goes cold with fear. _Fuck. He’ll go straight to Ciao Ciao – or_ Victor, _oh God –_

“And just look at you.” Chris’s eyes flit over his body, not in appraisal but in concern. “You’re about the size of my _leg._ You’re not… doing well, are you?”

Phichit doesn’t answer. Can’t answer.

Chris’s face softens. “Look, I don’t want to pry. It’s hard to talk about.” He offers a half-smile. “I know.”

“You…” _That means…_ His head is spinning and his heart soars as months – _years_ – of fear begin to unravel and fall away, and hope flares brightly within him. Chris has no scarring on his chest, so he can’t have had the operation, but he’s clearly not sick. _Which means he got better. That means it’s possible –_

“Yes. I’ll spare you the details, but I struggled with the move from junior division into senior, and for a while after that my relationship with food was… not great. Non-existent, sometimes.” He makes a face. “Therapy helped. So did my coach. So did Victor.”

Realisation comes like the ground rushing up to meet him after a long fall, and he can’t speak.

Chris is oblivious. “This sport is cruel to all of us, and no-one comes through it unscathed, not even Victor.” He sighs. “ _Especially_ not Victor. But Yuuri’s been good for him.”

 _I don’t care how Victor feels,_ he wants to scream, as despair sweeps in to fill the void left by hope. He knows it’s unfair, but he’s hurting too badly for any of that to matter. _I wish Yuuri didn’t mean anything to him. I wish he’d never –_

Before he can finish that thought, the silence is broken by _My Shot_ blasting at full volume from the changing room. Chris raises a quizzical eyebrow, and Phichit smiles sheepishly, his anger quenched by embarrassment. “Sorry, I’d better get that.” Grabbing a towel, he dashes back to the changing room and snatches up his phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Phichit, I know this is kind of unorthodox, but Mari and Minako-sensei sort of ambushed Other Yuri and Otabek in a restaurant and then Victor and I got dragged into helping them, and now that half of us are here already, we were thinking why not get everybody together for a meal?”

Yuuri’s voice sweeps away the last of his anger. “How on Earth did you manage to fit all that into one breath?”

Yuuri’s laugh has all the warmth of sunshine.

Phichit basks in it for a moment before replying properly. “Sure! Sounds great.”

“Victor’s on Chris’s trail, I think, but if you see him –”

“I’ll let him know. Where’s the restaurant?”

…

Half an hour later, after he’s awkwardly reassured Chris he’s fine and he’ll talk to someone if he needs, they are sitting with the others in a small restaurant tucked away down a pretty back street, crowded around a table not nearly big enough to accommodate all of them. Even JJ and Isabella have turned up, although how JJ found them all in the first place is a mystery. (It definitely has nothing to do with the group photo on Phichit’s Instagram.) He’s managed to get a seat next to Yuuri; the slight crush at the table means that Yuuri’s knee brushes against his occasionally, which is making it difficult to concentrate on eating.

Inevitably, talk turns to the previous year’s final. Phichit glances at Yuuri nervously – the Sochi final is something they’ve never discussed, and it was always Yuuri shutting down that particular topic – but, to his surprise, Yuuri seems positively cheerful about it, and perfectly happy to reminisce about the post-competition banquet he’s never mentioned to Phichit before.

“I was so nervous, I couldn’t even talk to Victor,” he grins.

Victor spits out a mouthful of beer, and scrabbles to wipe it up before turning to Yuuri in shock. “You mean you don’t remember?”

Phichit’s stomach knots as a nasty suspicion takes root. If Yuuri doesn’t remember, he was probably drunk. _I swear, Nikiforov, if you so much as_ touched _him –_

“You got drunk and started dancing. Everyone saw it,” Chris says, grinning wickedly.

Other Yuri scowls. “It was disgusting as hell. I got dragged into a dance-off and humiliated, too.”

“I still have videos of what happened.” Victor angles his phone towards Yuuri, who’s blushing so fiercely it’s a wonder he doesn’t catch fire.

From Phichit’s right, Chris pipes up, “I do, too.” He slides Phichit his phone, patting Phichit’s hand awkwardly as he does so.

“Wait, what?” Phichit looks down at the screen, and his face heats up as he takes in the sight of Yuuri, eyes wild with drunken confidence, hanging off a pole in nothing but his underwear and a loosely knotted tie, supporting a similarly-clad Chris on one arm. _Oh my_ God, _Yuuri._

“Yuuri, that’s so dirty!”

‘Dirty’ is the wrong word; that implies disgust on his part, shame on Yuuri’s, and that couldn’t be further from how he feels as he watches Yuuri and Chris move seamlessly from a jade split into a layback. The innate sensuality he glimpsed during those first forays in Detroit has blossomed into something full-blooded and brazen, something that makes it very difficult for Phichit to keep his breathing steady. Calling it _dirty_ is unfair. But he can’t call it what it is without embarrassing them both, can’t come right out and say in front of everyone - including Yuuri’s sister, including his _fiancé_ – ‘Yuuri, that’s so hot’.

Chris’s voice cuts through the fog of desire clouding his brain. “Hey, what’s with the rings, you two?”

He follows Chris’s gaze to Victor and Yuuri’s hands, each proudly displaying a band of bright gold.

Everything stops.

Phichit’s stomach goes into freefall; then he’s soaring again on a current of elation he doesn’t fully understand. A hundred emotions, a hundred fragments of thought – _when did they – I didn’t – does Spain even –_ flit across his mind, but only one leaves any lasting impression. _I can’t believe you got married without telling me, Yuuri._ But the sourness of that thought is drowned in a rush of joy.

He jumps up. “Congrats on your marriage!” he exclaims, clapping furiously. The other feelings can wait. For now, there’s only excitement at the thought of Yuuri’s happiness, an excitement he can’t contain. “Everyone! My good friend here got married!” he shouts in English, and either the other patrons understand or they don’t want to feel left out, because he’s soon got everyone else in the restaurant clapping.

He turns back to the source of all this joy, beaming, and his heart sinks.

Yuuri is shaking his head, agitated. “No, that’s not… They’re good luck charms, that’s all!” he protests, close to tears, and now Phichit is confused. He knows a wedding ring when he sees one.

_Maybe they didn’t want people to know? But then surely they would have hidden them –_

“Yes, don’t get the wrong idea,” Victor says smoothly, slipping a comforting arm around Yuuri. “They’re engagement rings.”

A shoal of half-formed questions darts about his mind, too fast for him to pursue any of them to a satisfactory conclusion.

“We’ll get married once he wins the gold. Right, Yuuri?”

That pulls him out of the maelstrom of his own thoughts. “A gold medal, huh?” he says in tandem with Chris and Otabek.

Poor Yuuri looks ready to combust.

The celebratory air in the room evaporates, and there’s a moment of stillness as they all size each other up, wary as rival predators. But then JJ starts blathering about how he’ll obviously be the one to win, which seems to unite everyone except Isabella in annoyance, and the tension dissipates as suddenly as it arrived.

He glares at JJ. _Why’d he have to make it about him? Stealing Yuuri’s thunder like that._ But Yuuri, he realises, is probably glad the storm of attention has passed on.

As the atmosphere relaxes, they reach a silent consensus that it is time to leave. Chris and Victor insist on splitting the bill between them, and Chris, who has evidently decided to play the gentleman tonight, holds the door for everyone. Phichit hangs back to give Victor and Yuuri some space, and nods his thanks to Chris as he leaves.

“I take it you didn’t see that coming either?” Chris says, slipping into line beside him.

Phichit shakes his head, and Chris looks thoughtful. “It’s funny, I never really saw Victor as the marrying sort.”

The weight of that word _marry_ hits Phichit again, painful as a botched landing. He’s never thought about Yuuri being _the marrying sort_ ; in China, when he wondered if Victor was about to propose, he didn’t get as far as picturing their actual marriage. And even in the early Detroit days, when daydreams about his future with Yuuri were an innocent indulgence and not an invitation to agony, he never thought in terms as concrete as that. Marriage is so definite, so final.

Underneath the hurt is a curious sense of release. Something in him still clung to that indistinctly imagined future, to the selfish idea that he might be enough for Yuuri, but now – faced with the irrefutable evidence of the rings – it has stopped struggling.

“Phichit?”

Chris’s voice startles him.

“I asked if you were okay.”

“Sorry, yeah, I’m… fine. I’m fine.”

Chris squeezes his shoulder. “No need to apologise, Phichit. A lot to take in, isn’t it?”

Phichit nods, not trusting himself to come up with a coherent response without giving everything away.

At the hotel, Phichit slinks back to his room and texts Yuuri.

_sorry for making things awkward for u, i got kinda carried away. congrats tho!_

_It’s okay. Thanks._

Brief, even for Yuuri. _u dont sound too happy for someone who just got engaged_

_I’m fine_

Yuuri-code for _help._

_wanna talk about it?_

_Not by text._

_my room. 5 mins._

…

Yuuri takes the mug of tea Phichit hands him and stares into it as if the words he needs will come bubbling to the surface.

Phichit waits. It doesn’t do to rush Yuuri in this kind of situation – not that they’ve been in quite this situation before.

“It’s just… Everything’s moving so _fast_ ,” Yuuri says helplessly.

“He proposed to you, then?”

Yuuri shakes his head, eyes on the floor.

“You proposed to him?”

“I didn’t – I didn’t mean – well, I _did_ , but…” The colour rises in his cheeks and he clenches his free hand in a tight fist on his knee.

“Okay, okay, slow down, Yuuri. What happened, exactly?”

After a gulp of tea, Yuuri mumbles, “I bought him a ring.”

“An engagement ring.” _Not a cheap one, either._

Yuuri nods. “I’d been planning it, or at least thinking about it, since Beijing. But it was all … _abstract_ , somehow. I knew it was going to happen, but I didn’t … I didn’t know what it would feel like, Phichit.”

There’s a terrifying pressure on Phichit’s ribs; Yuuri needs his comfort, and Phichit isn’t sure he can give it without coming to pieces. “What does it feel like?”

Yuuri flashes him a small smile that sparks like a lighter flame in Phichit’s chest. “It’s…” He pauses, sighs, sifting through his mind for the right words. “It’s wonderful. I don’t want you thinking I’m unhappy, that I regret it. I don’t. Not for a second. But I’m so scared that I’m going to mess it all up. It’s so _big._ It’s my whole future – Victor’s, too – and I want it to be perfect but I don’t know how any of this works, I’ve never even had a boyfriend before and now I’m getting _married_ , Phichit, I’m getting married and oh God what if I can’t do this, what if I’m not good enough and I ruin everything –”

“Yuuri. Breathe.” Phichit runs his hand over Yuuri’s back in slow circles. “One step at a time, okay? Breathe.”

With aching slowness, Yuuri begins to relax a little. “It’s just… I’ve got nothing to go on,” he continues in a small voice. “This is the first time I’ve been in love.” He lets out a breath, like he’s been holding that truth inside him, and looks at Phichit with clear, frightened eyes. “Can you believe that? I’m twenty-four, and this is the first time. With everything that happens, with everything I do, I have to stop and ask myself, ‘Is this normal?’”

“Yuuri, nothing about you is _normal_.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Yuuri says, with a nonplussed look.

“Okay, that came out wrong,” Phichit says with a light laugh that masks his own panic. How can he convince Yuuri of his worth without tearing out his own heart in the process? “What I meant was, you shouldn’t compare your relationship to anyone else’s. If it works for you and Victor – if it makes you both happy – that’s all that matters. Neither of you is exactly _ordinary_ – and I mean that in the best of ways – so it’s only natural that your relationship is extraordinary, too. The only thing that matters is you and your happiness, Yuuri. And if Victor adds to that happiness, then for God’s sake hold on to him and never let him go.”

Yuuri looks at him, stunned. “That was… intense. You okay?”

_No. I can barely breathe when I’m with you. It’s like I’m drowning. But being apart is worse._

“Just practising for my best man speech,” he grins without missing a beat.

The tension in Yuuri’s face clears, and it’s the loveliest thing, sunshine streaming through a sudden break in clouds. Phichit takes a swig of tea to overpower the tang of petals at the back of his throat.

“How do you know I’m even going to ask you?” Yuuri grins.

“C’mon, who else are you gonna pick, _Other Yuri_?”

They share a laugh at that.

“I’d better get back to Victor – he’ll be wondering where I am. But thanks, I feel a lot better now.” Putting his empty mug on the bedside table, Yuuri pulls Phichit into a quick hug. At the door, he pauses with his fingers on the handle. “So… _will_ you be my best man?”

“In a heartbeat, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles, and then he’s gone.

Phichit picks up Yuuri’s mug in both hands and hugs it to him as if it’s Yuuri he’s holding, as if the rapidly diminishing warmth might soothe the pain in his chest. He doesn’t want this pain; he wants to feel joy for Yuuri, and for Victor, too, who has never deserved his animosity. But he can’t let go of the cruelty of it all, of how Yuuri’s life is just getting started while his is drawing to an end.

…

Celestino is giving him some last-minute advice, but Phichit isn’t really listening. He’s running over his programme in his head one last time, trying not to let his legs tremble, willing the ice to hold him up. He won’t let the flowers win out here.

A rush of nostalgia, of love, of pain fills him as the music begins to play, and he leans into it, embracing the feelings in their wholeness, their entirety. _Remember why you love this music. Why you love Yuuri_. The two, for him, are inseparable. Love links everything in his life, and he has to pour as much of that _everything_ into this skate as he can.

He remembers the first time he showed Yuuri _The King and the Skater_ , how nervous he was about sharing something so important, afraid that Yuuri wouldn’t understand his enthusiasm. How relieved he was to see Yuuri’s eyes light up at the first skating sequence.

_‘He looks just like I did when I was learning,’ Yuuri muses. ‘I kept digging in my toe-pick like that. It took Yuuko weeks to coach me_ _into stroking properly.’_

_Phichit knows from that that Yuuri won’t laugh at the dream he’s harbouring. As ‘Shall We Skate?’, his favourite of all the songs, finishes, he says, “Someday I’ll skate_ _to that at a major competition.” He takes a breath, then plunges on. “You’ll be there too, Yuuri.”_

_And Yuuri doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tell him he’s being silly, just nods. “Why don’t we practise?”_

_“What, now?”_

_Laughing, Yuuri pulls him to his feet. “Why not?” He waits for Phichit to return the Schuylers to their cage, then takes his hand. “Do you want to lead, or shall I?”_

_“I know the steps off by heart,” Phichit grins. “Let me.” And he leads Yuuri through the first_ _dance, the two of them gliding over the carpet together as if it were ice._

_It’s something they’ll do many times over the years. When they’re tired after class or practice, or Phichit is bored, or Yuuri is having a bad day and needs something to centre him, they will step onto their imaginary rink and go over these steps that Phichit, and soon enough Yuuri, knows by heart._

And now Phichit is living out that dream. He allows himself to be filled with pride at how far he has come, how far he is about to go. Lifted by the music he loves – music to which no Thai skater has ever performed – and the crowd’s applause as ‘Shall We Skate?’ builds towards its first chorus, he nails his triple axel.

Good, but not good enough to elevate him above his competitors. _My only quad is the toe loop,_ _so it’ll be hard to earn higher scores than the others._ But that doesn’t matter. Let the others pack their programmes with quads, strive to beat records, set their sights on medals. They’re all worthy goals, but they’re not his.

It is tremendously freeing to allow the music to carry him, to let his programme flow as it should, to _breathe_. He pulls off his triple-triple combination with what feels like no effort at all; it will hurt later, but right now he feels only joy that lifts him onwards into his quad toe loop like it is nothing.

No. Like it is _everything_.

 _I have no past accomplishments to defend. This is my new beginning._ Perhaps it will turn out to be an ending, too, but he can’t worry about the future when the present is all that matters. _It would be a waste if I wasn’t as excited as a child drawing art no-one’s ever seen before on a blank canvas!_ Yuuri is the one with ‘love’ as his theme, but that doesn’t stop Phichit from writing his own love letter in the ice – to Yuuri, to Thailand, to life.

Whatever happens after the music stops and the tracks of his skates are smoothed over, this will remain. People will remember this. Remember him.

Pride floods through him again as the music embarks on its final crescendo and he dances through the last steps and spins.

There is a beat of silence, and then it begins to hail flowers and plushies as the stadium erupts in cheers.

His short programme is over. He’s done it. But now everything the music and the exhilaration kept at bay – all the exhaustion, the relief, the tearing pain – soaks through him all at once. His shoulders begin to shake. He brings his hands up to his face, fearing he’s about to throw up, but no petals come. In their place are tears, uncontrollable tears, overflowing through his fingers and dripping down the sleeves of his jacket. It’s only now it’s been lifted off him that he realises the weight of the burden he’s been carrying, not only his own hopes and fears but the expectations of a nation. The relief from that pressure is overwhelming, and for a minute all he can do is sob.

He returns to the kiss and cry in a daze, his mind still replaying his performance. Reality does not come rushing back until Celestino envelops him in a huge bear-hug and congratulates him in rapid Italian, too carried away by excitement to remember that Phichit isn’t fluent. Celestino has good cause to be excited; Phichit’s score is a stunning personal best.

He wraps an arm around Celestino’s broad shoulders and pulls him into a selfie, the two of them grinning fit to burst. _There you go, Thailand. There’s the score you have to beat_. He feels a rush of joy, of pride, at the thought of the young skaters who’ll one day follow his example.

 _And you won’t live to see it._ Pain cuts through his joy, so severe he clutches at his chest in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Celestino is immediately attentive, placing a careful hand on his back and turning him away from the microphones and cameras.

“Don’t feel good,” he murmurs faintly. His voice is strained against the agony in his chest, and Celestino’s concern turns to fear.

 _Can’t have that._ He forces a weak smile. “Shouldn’t have eaten… seafood… before a competition.”

Celestino’s furrowed brow relaxes. “Thank God your stomach is stronger than Yuuri’s,” he chuckles, patting Phichit on the shoulder. “Go and rest up. I’ll deal with the press. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“But Yuuri’s about to –”

“I’ll film his performance. You can watch it when you’re feeling better.”

He nods gratefully and slips off down the corridor, ignoring the flash of cameras and the disappointed calls of, “Mr Chulanont? Just a moment, please…” Celestino will have to handle the media storm for him.

As soon as he’s out of sight, he half-collapses against the wall, fighting for breath as the pain takes him in its claws. Twigs scratch at his lungs, tearing open the soft fabric of his body as if to drown him in his own blood. He tries to focus on something, _anything_ else, but it is Yuuri his mind fumbles for. Agony blooms in his chest, searing hot, and his vision goes white.

When it clears, he is slumped against the base of the wall, and only has a second to bring his hands to his mouth before the petals erupt in a bloody stream.

He is only distantly grateful that no-one sees him as he hurries to the toilets to clean up the mess the flowers have made; the pain is too sharp for any other feeling to come into focus. But as it gradually subsides, a heaviness begins to settle in its place.

He has cleared away the last traces of blood and petals, but the shadows of illness are everywhere in the face staring back from the mirror. He is haggard, wretched, almost unrecognisable. Make-up and the excuse of food-poisoning will let him explain it away for now, but it’s only a stay of execution, not a pardon. Every time he pushes himself to his breaking point like this, the flowers gain more ground, steal more time. If he dropped out of the free skate, who knows how long he could buy himself. If he goes ahead and skates, he’ll sacrifice days, weeks, maybe months.

There’s no question about it.

He _has_ to skate.

Giving up now would mean letting the flowers win, turning his back on his own dreams, throwing away the love of everyone who supports him – not only Yuuri, but Celestino, his family, his legions of fans. To allow the disease to take control would be to give up on himself, on who he is. And he refuses to do that. His free skate has to be the skate of his life.

Winning this battle will cost him the war, but this isn’t a war that he can win. Why not go out in a blaze of glory?

He stumbles against the sink as his knees suddenly buckle, and the boy in the mirror smiles ruefully. _You won’t be skating at all if you don’t get some rest._

…

The buzzing of his phone pulls him out of sleepy oblivion. He surfaces slowly, almost knocking the phone off his bed as he fumbles for it with his eyes half-open. True to his word, Celestino has sent him the video of Yuuri’s performance.

He’s on his sixteenth rewatch when the text from Yuuri comes through. _Celestino said you weren’t feeling well. You OK?_

He types out a cheery reply, then deletes it.

_been better_

Yuuri knows him well enough to recognise the understatement, and five minutes later there is a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls. His voice is too weak for Yuuri to hear; it’s a moment or two before he cautiously pokes his head into Phichit’s room.

“Hey,” they say at the same time.

“Been partying too hard?” Yuuri grins, perching on the end of the bed.

“You know me so well, Yuuri.” He means it to sound light-hearted, but his voice is so feeble that Yuuri’s forehead crinkles in concern.

“God, you sound _awful_. You’re not coming down with something, are you?” He puts a hand on Phichit’s forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, which is good. Do you feel sick?”

The warmth of Yuuri’s presence, the miraculous, tingling pressure of his hand against Phichit’s skin, has melted away the last of the lingering nausea, and only exhaustion is left. He shakes his head.

“Just tired.” They are totally inadequate words for the ache working its way through his bones and trying to drag him under the earth, but he doesn’t want to frighten Yuuri.

Yuuri’s frown softens. “I’m going to make you some peppermint tea anyway, okay? Sorry, I’m not sure where we’d find Ya-hom in Barcelona.” He adjusts Phichit’s pillows and busies himself with the kettle, humming a pretty melody that Phichit, foggy with exhaustion, can’t place.

He gives up trying and contents himself with just looking at Yuuri. Unlike Phichit, who still hasn’t changed out of his costume, Yuuri is wearing jeans and an old grey jumper; it’s a comfortable, familiar outfit that reminds Phichit of dark November afternoons in the David Adamany library, of sharing a hot chocolate as they hurried across campus back to the warmth and light of their apartment.

That jumper sits differently on Yuuri now, but Phichit still loves the way it folds against Yuuri’s body, loves the snug fit of Yuuri’s jeans over his thighs. He wishes he could wrap his arms around Yuuri, feel the half-known, half-imagined shape of him, rest his head on Yuuri’s shoulder and breathe in that scent he misses so much. But he doesn’t dare. Not because Yuuri would be surprised or uncomfortable – they’ve always been tactile, affectionate – but because he’s afraid the cinnamon will all be gone, and only the unfamiliar tang of citrus will be left.

Only when Yuuri stops humming does Phichit recognise the music for what it was. ‘Stammi Vicino'. A bolt of pain shoots through him, and he screws up his eyes against the tears.

Yuuri turns around with a mug of tea in his hands. “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?” Hastily depositing the mug on the counter, he rushes over and puts a hand on Phichit’s back. “Phichit?”

“’s nothing. Just sore.” He doesn’t let his voice shake. He has no way of explaining to Yuuri why he’s upset; as far as Yuuri knows, he’s just a little under the weather. _Just another performance. Nothing I can’t handle._

Yuuri hums sympathetically as he rubs Phichit’s back in soothing circles. “You really pushed yourself, huh? Here, drink this, it should help.” He hands the mug of tea to Phichit.

And it does help, just a little. Or maybe it’s Yuuri – Yuuri’s hands working out the tension in his back, Yuuri filling the silence with cheerful, inconsequential comments that require nothing from Phichit but the occasional murmur of assent.

But all too soon, Yuuri takes his hands off Phichit’s shoulders and stands up. “I should probably go and meet Victor. I need to talk to him about some stuff.”

Ordinarily, Phichit would tease Yuuri mercilessly for a statement like that. _Is that what we’re calling it now? You sure you won’t be too out of breath for talking? Make sure you don’t_ talk _too loudly – these walls are thin, you know._ But Yuuri seems on edge. When Phichit asks, “Anything I can help with?” Yuuri shakes his head quickly.

“This is between me and Victor.”

The words are tight and sharp, and Phichit can’t help flinching even though he can feel the anxiety coiling around Yuuri, knows he didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

Yuuri sighs, fiddling with the ring on his finger. “I’m sorry, Phichit, I…”

“Hey, it’s okay.” It’s not okay, whatever _it_ is, if it’s making Yuuri unhappy, but there’s nothing Phichit can do. He punches Yuuri very lightly on the arm. “Go and talk to your fiancé, you.”

Yuuri smiles at that, which is almost enough to smooth over the inevitable pain in Phichit’s chest at the word _fiancé_. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I don’t want to leave you on your own if you’re not feeling good…”

“I’m fine, Yuuri.” The tang of daffodils, sour at the back of his throat; he swallows, and does his best to ignore it. “I’ll text you if I feel sick or anything, okay?”

“Okay.” Yuuri wraps him in a warm hug, and squeezes Phichit’s hand before letting go of him. “Try to get some rest. I don’t want you collapsing in the middle of your free skate.”

 _No promises._ “All right, Mâe.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes in fond exasperation before disappearing into the corridor.

Phichit looks at his hand, still tingling from Yuuri’s touch. There is a patch of skin on the back of it which is darker and drier than usual. _Funny, I hadn’t noticed that before._ His skincare routine hasn’t exactly been the first thing on his mind recently. He prods at the patch, and his stomach twists sickeningly when he feels the rough texture of bark. Heart in his mouth, he glances at his reflection in his phone screen; sure enough, there’s a similar patch on his forehead where Yuuri’s hand was.

Phichit rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Is there nothing that the flowers won’t snatch away from him?

His entire body is heavy, weighed down by the tangle of branches that clog his chest and steal his air; he wants to run after Yuuri, to make the rom fill with his light again, to push away the encroaching darkness, but he’s too exhausted. All he can do is fight for breath and curse the sickness tearing him apart. Yuuri’s engagement, his own achievements, all the joy he should feel – all the bright things are buried under dead leaves and rotten petals.

Buried, not gone. But he has to get out of his own head, get away from the flowers, if only for a while.

Just reaching for his phone is a mammoth effort. Slowly, he pieces together a text to Chris.

_the lovebirds ditched me again. wanna hang out?_

He stares at the words on the screen, bleakly amused by the absurdity of his carefree tone. But Chris is astute enough to read between the lines if he lets his breezy façade slip.

Chris’s reply is immediate. _I thought you weren’t well?_

A thrill of fear goes through him before he realises that – like Celestino, like Yuuri, like the pundits who are no doubt debating the cause of his abrupt exit at this moment – Chris presumably just thinks Phichit is having an off day.

 _ugh did Ciao Ciao tell EVERYONE?_ He hopes Celestino put together a statement that will keep the press off his back. He’ll still have to deal with his fans; they’ve probably got a prayer circle going for him by now.

_No, Victor told me. He’s worried about you too, you know._

_victor? y??_

_You’re about to marry his best friend. You’re important to him._

_Marry._ That word again. Before Phichit can squash down the jealousy and guilt that the thought of Victor always brings and come up with a proper reply, Chris sends another text.

_You realise everyone likes you, right? I’ve never met a skater with a bad word to say about you._

_that’s what happens when ur as fabulous as me._ Keep it confident. Keep it light-hearted. Keep Chris from knowing his words have set Phichit’s stomach roiling with guilt at just how far this web of deceit extends. _not feeling particularly fab rn tho_

_I can come and sit with you if you want. Keep you company._

The last thing he wants is Chris keeping vigil over his sickbed like he’s some fragile invalid. _nah im well enough to get up, just a bit wobbly haha. did u have plans?_

_I was thinking of going to the pool again._

_its December r u mad_

_I take it you don’t want to join me then ;)_

_dont feel like swimming rn but ill help u take photos. ur recent neglect of ur Insta is a tragedy_

He hastily adds, _NOT comin if ur goin skinny-dipping tho_

_:(_

He rolls his eyes; interacting with Chris when he’s in this kind of mood is exhausting. Then another text comes through. _In all seriousness, Phichit, it would be nice to have your company._ And another. _Don’t worry, I’ll keep it PG. Wouldn’t want to scar any young fans._

Phichit manages a half-smile as he texts back _meet u in 10?_

…

It’s almost half an hour before he makes it down to the pool. It turns out applying make-up isn’t easy with the new, unwelcome stiffness in his right hand.

Chris greets him with a smile. “Ah, there you are, Phichit.” He takes a sip of his martini. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“I should apologise for my unfortunate choice of restaurant. It’s my fault you’re not feeling well.” He runs a hand through his hair, not quite looking Phichit in the eye.

“Very suspicious that I’m the one who got sick, especially after what I said about trying to throw me off my game,” Phichit says, eyes narrowing playfully. “If my results in the free skate aren’t what they should be…”

Chris looks as if he’s genuinely concerned he’s damaged Phichit’s chances.

Phichit puts a hand on Chris’s arm, and Chris starts. “I’m _joking._ The only person responsible for my results is me. And _maaaaybe_ whoever cooked those prawns. But mostly me,” he repeats hastily, as Chris goes to apologise again. “Seriously, don’t sweat it. Remember the year at Skate America when Yuuri ate prawn chow mein the night before his short programme and literally threw up on the ice the next day? So, y’know, it happens to the best of us.”

Chris makes no attempt to return Phichit’s smile. “You _are_ the best of us, Phichit,” he says with a sincerity that shakes Phichit to his core.

“Hey, that’s my joke.”

“I wasn’t joking.” There’s no trace of Chris’s usual playfulness as he looks Phichit dead in the face, eyes bright with conviction.

 _What’s going on?_ “That’s not even remotely accurate. I only have one quad. I smashed my PB out there and I still got the lowest score of anyone except JJ –”

“I’m not talking about scores,” Chris says, like it’s obvious. “I’m talking about _you._ Have you any idea how special you are?”

A light-hearted reply bubbles to his lips, but he swallows it back; this isn’t the time. “You’ve been drinking,” he says, looking at the glass instead of at Chris. Chris doesn’t sound drunk, but he has no other explanation for Chris’s odd behaviour.

Chris sighs, looking suddenly tired. “I’m a little offended you don’t think I can be sincere and sober at the same time, but I suppose I haven’t given you much cause to trust me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” Phichit trails off, not really sure what he _does_ mean, or why he’s apologising. “Sorry,” he says again, weakly, with an uncertain smile.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. That was uncalled for.” Chris’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was being selfish. Forgive me.”

He has no idea what Chris means; before he can ask, Chris leans forward and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you doing, Phichit? Have you thought any more about talking to someone?”

“What? I told you, that’s not… I’m fine!” He shakes Chris’s hand off.

Chris looks at him sadly. “Phichit, anyone could see there’s something the matter.”

 _Then how come it’s taken five years for you to notice? How come_ he’s _never noticed, in all this time?_

Chris looks at him with an unreadable expression, and Phichit realises that he’s spoken aloud. It’s too late for him to cover his tracks.

“Oh, honey.” Chris reaches for Phichit’s arm again, then drops his hand suddenly, as if thinking better of it. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Phichit doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with the ghost of a smile. “How could you tell?” His own voice sounds tiny, childlike in his ears.

Chris’s grin is rueful. “I had a crush on Victor for a _very_ long time. Well, at the start it was more like hero-worship. I didn’t understand my own feelings until later.”

 _Like me,_ Phichit almost says.

Wistfully, Chris continues, “I’m something of an expert on unrequited crushes.”

“You didn’t ask if I had a _crush_ on him, you asked if I was in _love_ with him. How’d you know?”

“I haven’t mentioned his name once, but we both know I’m talking about Yuuri.”

Phichit’s heart thumps against his ribs. _No use denying it_. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Chris gives him a sympathetic pat on the arm, drawing his hand back as if it will burn if it lingers too long on Phichit’s skin. “Don’t worry, Phichit, my lovely. My lips are sealed.” He flashes Phichit a brilliant grin; there’s something empty about it, and a touch of tiredness still haunts his eyes, but Phichit doesn’t want to pry. “Now how about those photos?”

…

“Excuse me, Katsuki Yuuri, you did _what_?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Yuuri wails into the phone.

“And how, exactly, was Victor supposed to know that when you said, ‘Let’s end this’ you were talking about your professional partnership and not your _actual freaking engagement?_ I’d have been pretty upset too, if I were Victor.” He sighs. “You two need to talk it out. Now.”

He can tell Yuuri is pretty shaken, but he doesn’t have the energy to sort this out for him. Not after the weirdness with Chris, not after the discovery that Yuuri’s touch could be even more swiftly fatal to him than the flowers in his lungs. Besides, this is up to Yuuri.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Yuuri says reluctantly. “I’d better go and talk to him. Thanks.”

“Any time.” The words come out limp and lifeless, but it doesn’t matter; Yuuri has already hung up.

…

The roar of the crowd is deafening. It rolls through the stadium like thunder; the air crackles with expectation, and the reverberations travel up through his feet and shake his whole body. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

“All right, Phichit.” Celestino’s voice cuts through the roar and brings him back to himself. “Go out there and make Thailand proud.”

He nods, the pressure in his chest lessening slightly. _Forget about the others. Do this for Thailand._

He risks a glance up at the stands, searching for those familiar stripes and finding dozens. _I’ve never had such a big crowd cheering for me before. I really want to turn in a flawless performance._

He’ll have to fight for every step. His breathing is tight, his limbs stiff as an old man’s, his body crying out for rest. _Not yet._ He smiles against the pain, against the flowers that want to bind him to the earth. He can do this. He’s pushing back against something that may well overwhelm him before he can even reach the end of his programme – but a futile effort is better than no effort at all.

He stumbles on his triple axel, and with the pain of the fall comes a wave of relief. He won’t place now; that leaves him free to do what he does best. _I have to entertain the audience._

Were Yuuri watching, nothing but perfection would do. But he’ll be preparing for his own skate.

Phichit’s lungs are burning, but his body is freer, lighter, and he lands the quad toe with rare ease. Forget the pain, and fly; show Thailand – show the _world_ – what only he can do. _Here at the Grand Prix Final, I’m confident that I stand out as a skater unlike any other!_ He nails his next combination – a triple flip for Yuuri, a loop for himself, a double flip for everyone else who’s got him this far.

This is his best chance to show what skating can be, the joy of it, beyond the scoring, the endless chasing after the next impossible quad. He had hoped, when his competitive days were over, to carry that message beyond the professional ice skating circuit. To have an ice show – something to tell ordinary Thai kids there was a place on the ice for them, too. But that’s out of the question now; this will have to take its place.

No better stage than an international one. He leans into the music he loves, lets it carry him towards the ending.

“That was really something,” Celestino enthuses as he helps Phichit into his jacket. He starts talking about scores, season’s bests and records and new goals, but Phichit is suddenly light-headed, woozy, and he barely registers any of it.

Worse still, his head is spinning too much for him to focus on Yuuri’s performance. He slips off before Yuuri leaves the ice, nodding to Victor as he does so. It’s their turn now; he shouldn’t impinge. Celestino follows him. Phichit can tell he’s worried, but for once he doesn’t say anything, and Phichit is glad not to have to lie again.

The skaters-only area is empty but for a couple of venue staff who congratulate him briefly before turning back to the screen. He’s grateful for that; he’s in no shape for small talk. Trying to steady his breathing, he watches Chris take the ice.

Something’s wrong. Chris seems ill at ease, looking at his feet instead of playing to the crowd, and his movements are too stiff. It’s no surprise when his quad Lutz turns into a dismal single.

“Hang in there, Chris!” he exclaims. He hates seeing Chris struggle. It’s a relief when the elements start to flow more smoothly, to come together as they should. There’s something different about the routine itself, and he can’t help smiling when he realises what it is.

“He changed his programme to make a jump into a combination in the second half.”

Celestino nods approvingly. “That’s something you might want to work on. I’m not telling you to pull a Yuuri and start throwing quad flips in right at the end, but having alternatives in mind in case you trip up on one element is a good idea. We can incorporate that into the rest of this season.”

Phichit pretends not to hear Celestino – ignoring the exhaustion that sweeps through him at the thought of Worlds and the Four Continents and everything still to come – and loses himself in Chris’s routine instead. When Chris lands his last jump without falling, he clenches his fist triumphantly. No matter that Chris’s score has kept him in last place; he’s beyond caring about that now. He’s just happy to see Chris recover. _Something’s up, though. I should talk to him later, make sure I didn’t upset him._

But that can wait until he’s seen Yuuri claim gold.

Excitement at the thought of Yuuri’s win brings back the dizziness; the only comment he can manage during Otabek’s routine is a gentle ‘wow’, and a sigh of relief when Otabek fails to overtake Yuuri.

When Other Yuri snatches the gold by the cruellest of margins, he wants to scream, but he doesn’t have the breath.

He almost wishes he’d told Yuuri the truth beforehand, laid everything out and said to him, “Go and win the gold for me.” But it wouldn’t have been fair. When Yuuri wins, it must be on his own terms, not shackled by the weight of a selfish dying wish from someone who has never quite learnt to let go. He has always tried to lift Yuuri up; he cannot end by dragging him down.

…

Yuuri stands off to one side of the room, Victor’s arm around his waist, silver medal gleaming brightly against his indigo jacket. A camera is trained on him, and two reporters are interviewing him in English. And Yuuri is glowing. He looks happy and relaxed and proud, and Phichit thinks he might burst open with pride, too.

He waits until the interview has finished, then hurries over. Yuuri’s sister and teacher are around somewhere, probably chatting to (or chatting up) Chris. They’ll want to talk to Yuuri soon. He shouldn’t keep Yuuri from them, but he’s going to explode if he doesn’t get to congratulate Yuuri. He has no words to express the joy coursing through him, the pride and relief and love, but he has to say _something_.

“Phichit! I’m so proud of you, you did _amazingly_ ,” Yuuri exclaims, letting go of Victor and drawing Phichit into an embrace that threatens to break him into pieces.

He opens his mouth, trusting it to find the words that his mind cannot, and his body betrays him at last. Unable to hold himself up, he sags against Yuuri as his shoulders convulse and he coughs out a stream of not words but petals.

Yuuri is too shocked to move; it’s Victor who grabs him and bundles him into the skaters-only area, away from the crowds and the cameras. He’ll be grateful for that, later, when he can process anything other than pain and horror – horror that Yuuri finally knows, and worse, that he had to find out like this. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve gone and ruined your big day._

He is propped up against the wall, and someone is shaking him by the shoulders. Yuuri. “Who is it, Phichit? Do I know them? I’ll – we’ll talk to them, we’ll sort this out, okay? You’re going to be okay.” He’s choking back tears. “Is it someone here? One of the others? Chris? Seung-Gil? Guang-Hong?” His grip on Phichit’s shoulder grows suddenly tighter as his eyes widen in fear. “Oh God,” he says hoarsely, almost to himself. “It’s Victor, isn’t it?” Yuuri takes his hand off Phichit’s shoulder and lets it fall limply to his side.

Yuuri’s utter obtuseness is almost comical; Phichit doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Before he can respond, Yuuri is off again, his words running frantically along the same well-worn tracks of anxiety Phichit recognises all too well. “Okay. Okay.” Deep, shaking breaths as he tries to hold on to a shred of calm. “We can find a way round this. Together.” He glances from Victor to Phichit. “I can live with it if – if it means you don’t, you don’t have to…” He can’t finish that sentence; Phichit can hear the unsaid words tearing him apart.

His glasses have slipped down his nose, and Phichit reaches up and adjusts them gently, dares to cup Yuuri’s face in his hands. _Even with your glasses on, you never could see what was right in front of you._ “Yuuri. It’s not Victor.”

That gesture does what years of hints and glances and drunken confessions have not. All at once, Yuuri knows, and it breaks him. He clutches at Victor as his knees buckle and he stumbles, staring at Phichit in horror and grief.

Victor holds him steady as he buries his face in Victor’s shirt and howls.

As he strokes Yuuri’s hair, Victor looks at Phichit, helpless, lost. Finding the right words has never been Victor’s strong point, but even if he were good with words, what could he possibly say to make this right?

Phichit is grateful he doesn’t try. Yuuri’s grief is heavy enough; he can already feel the petals bubbling into his throat, and he turns his head to cough out another clump of them. Purple streaked with red, something that might once have been hyacinth. _I’m sorry._ Trying to comfort both Victor and Yuuri would be more than Phichit could bear.

Yuuri breaks away from Victor and kneels at Phichit’s side, trying desperately to stem his own tears. “I’m so sorry, Phichit, I’m so sorry,” he whispers over and over, until the words dissolve into sobs again. He’s holding Phichit now, gently, like he’s afraid of breaking him, and even with the fire in his lungs, even with Yuuri’s tears soaking into his jacket, it’s so sublime a feeling Phichit almost wishes it could end like this.

“When?” Yuuri asks. “When did this start?”

“If you mean _when did I fall in love with you_ , Yuuri, that would be the moment I saw you, although I didn’t realise it then.”

That only makes Yuuri cry harder, and now both Phichit and Victor are comforting him, Victor’s hand on his back, Phichit’s fingers in his hair.

“But the petals? Five years ago. The night before your first Skate Detroit entry, Yuuri.”

Victor swears quietly.

Yuuri lifts his head and stares at him. “ _Five years_? This has been going on for _five whole years_ and I didn’t notice? Oh God, Phichit, why didn’t you tell me how you felt before you got sick, why didn’t you _s-say s-something…_ ” He collapses into sobs again, and Victor gently draws him away from Phichit, hugging him close.

Phichit’s chest throbs, but he gives a weak laugh. “You didn’t believe me. Not your fault, I was off my face at the time…”

Yuuri looks at him, unable to speak, and Phichit knows he remembers that night, and that right now he’s breaking apart, horrified, furious at himself for not taking Phichit’s sloppy, drunken confession seriously.

“Yuuri, don’t beat yourself up over it. _Please._ ” He can’t stop Yuuri from hurting, but he has to try to limit the damage, at least. “Why on Earth would you have thought I was telling the truth? It was 3AM and I was too drunk to walk straight…”

He grins at Victor. “Ah, the perils of underage drinking.”

Victor doesn’t smile back. He just stares back at Phichit like Phichit is a puzzle he can’t fit together. “This is going to sound rude, but… five years? _How are you still alive?_ ”

“That’s just who I am – Phichit Chulanont, certified medical marvel.”

“Phichit. I’m serious.”

“Hi serious, I’m –” he begins, but Yuuri cuts him off.

“How can you be so _calm_? How can you joke about it like it’s nothing when it’s _everything_ , Phichit, it’s going to – you’re going to –” His voice is strained, barely audible, but there is something like anger in his expression.

“Maybe precisely because of that.” He can’t bring himself to name it either. “If I didn’t know exactly how this was going to end, I’d be terrified, Yuuri. But there’s nothing I can do to change it, so what’s the use of being upset?”

Victor’s face tightens in indignation, and he hurries on, “I don’t mean you, Yuuri. To be honest, I’d be a bit offended if you weren’t upset.” He smiles; Yuuri doesn’t. “But I don’t know how else to be. Why spend my last – why spend however much time I’ve got left feeling sorry for myself?” That’s not the whole truth, but he’s not ready to face that yet.

At last, the ghost of a smile on Yuuri’s lips; it’s fragile, fleeting, but it dulls the pain in his chest. “I think that’s the most _Phichit_ thing you’ve ever said.” Yuuri hugs him again, almost calm.

Until Phichit begins to cough – or at least tries to. The obstruction in his chest doesn’t move. His shoulders twitch as he spits out a few mangled, bloody petals, but it doesn’t alleviate the pressure behind his ribs.

Some of the petals land on Yuuri, who springs back, his face contorted with guilt. “Did I hurt you?”

But Phichit can’t answer. He’s doubled over, clutching at his chest, gasping for breath as the pressure pushes up into his chest, cutting off his air. And the pain – the pain is like nothing he’s ever felt before. It’s as if his lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out.

Air. He needs air, or he’s going to die. Right here, right now, sprawled against the blank white wall of a backstage room at an unfamiliar rink, thousands of miles from home.

Shoulders heaving, he retches – emptily at first, and then there’s blood splashing down his front and it won’t stop, it won’t stop and he _still can’t breathe_. It feels as if there is a jagged stone stuck in his throat, and the harder he tries to force it out, the deeper it cuts him.

He can hear shouting, but he can place neither the voice nor the words; the pain and the panic block out everything else.

Then Yuuri is kneeling in front of him again. He can’t hear what Yuuri is saying, but he’s there, and that’s enough for Phichit to hold on to, to keep him fighting for breath. He grabs Yuuri’s hand to steady himself against the pain, and with one last desperate effort, his fingers holding tight to Yuuri’s as fire rakes through him, he coughs out the object in his throat.

It’s a monster of a thing, the size of his fist, and even through all the blood, there’s no mistaking the long yellow petals.

“That’s a shame, I used to like sunflowers,” he starts to say, but for some reason no sound comes out. There’s still an odd pressure on his chest, but it’s not the familiar weight of petals and roots; it’s as if there’s something heavy sitting on his lungs, crushing him from the outside. He looks down, puzzled, but there’s nothing there.

He tries to cry out. It’s only then that he realises he still can’t breathe.

Looking at the bloody sunflower in his lap, he only has time to think _‘well, that’s hardly fair’_ before he slides into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thai expressions:  
> Sawatdee kap - Hello  
> Khop khun kap - Thank you  
> Laeo phop kan mai - See you soon  
> Mae - Mum
> 
> Georgian expressions:  
> Didi madloba - Thank you
> 
> Flower meanings:  
> Yellow rose - jealousy  
> Daffodil - deception  
> Red chrysanthemum - Deep passion  
> Yellow chrysanthemum - Sorrow, neglected love  
> Hyacinth - I'm sorry  
> Sunflower - Radiance, brightness
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Shall We Then Say Goodnight and Mean Goodbye

Awareness returns in fragments. First, pain, knifing through his chest and throat, making him wish he could slip back into oblivion. Then the sound of voices.

"You're a doctor, aren't you? There's got to be  _something_  – can't you just, I don't know, cut it out of him?"

Recognition tugs at him like the pull of the tide. He considers opening his eyes to find out who the speaker is, but his eyelids are leaden and will not move.

A flurry of words in a language he doesn't know. Two more voices; one male, vaguely familiar, the other female and alien to him.

The male voice slips into English again. "She says even if they had his permission to operate, it's too advanced."

"So you're just going to let him… You're giving up on him? Bullshit!"

A sigh, then the second voice again, the unknown words rushing over each other like water in a stream. The other voice, the woman's voice, replies, and then the second voice is back, quiet, strained.

"They're doing everything they can, and he's out of immediate danger, but in the long run…" Another sigh. "There's nothing they can do for him at this stage."

"There must be  _something!_  It's in his lungs, right? Why can't you give him a transplant? For God's sake, you can take one of mine, I don't need it, just,  _please_ , you have to help him –"

"I don't want you to get thrown out. Please, Yuuri, calm down –"

_Yuuri_. As it comes back to him, he tries to push away the understanding, but it's too late. He remembers collapsing after the medal ceremony, remembers Yuuri's horror, remembers the sunflower. Then – nothing, until now.

He tries to open his eyes again. This time he succeeds, although the effort leaves him weak. The scene swims into focus slowly, and even then, it takes him a while to process it.

There's a woman in scrubs standing next to him. Yuuri stands in front of her, two of his fingers in a splint. Between Yuuri and the woman, holding onto Yuuri's arm as if trying to hold him back, or up, or both, is – Leo?  _Shouldn't he be in the States right now?_

The matter of Yuuri's bandaged hand is more important. "Yuuri," he tries to say, but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. Even that is enough to set his throat on fire.

"Phichit, oh my God, Phichit, you're awake…" Shrugging off Leo's hand on his arm, Yuuri rushes over, and lays his hand against Phichit's cheek.

Before he can ask Yuuri what happened to his hand, before he can register the sweetness of Yuuri's touch or the numbness that comes with it, Yuuri snatches his hand back as if he's been burnt, guilt stamped all over his face.

Moving in front of Yuuri, the woman in scrubs says something in a tone that is gentle but firm.

Leo hurries to interpret. "Phichit, this is Dr Melucci. She says it would be best if you didn't try to talk for few days, until your throat's healed." As Dr Melucci takes out a notebook and pen and hands them to Phichit with a few words, Leo supplies, "You can use these to communicate."

Phichit flips the notebook open and writes, 'How long do I have?'

Yuuri lets out a sob.

Leo puts a hand on Yuuri's back in comfort as he translates Dr Melucci's answer. "It's impossible to tell, I'm afraid. You're something of a special case – I've never seen someone exhibiting late-stage symptoms retain this much function. Being an elite athlete will have helped with that."

'Remember, kids, ice-skating saves lives!' Phichit scribbles. Yuuri gives him a watery smile.

Through Leo, Dr Melucci explains there's no way of predicting how fast the hanahaki will progress. Barring another major attack, he'll be discharged in about a week, but after that it's anyone's guess; it could be months, or it could be days.

"Right now, you need to rest," she says. Phichit can hear the firmness in her tone even before Leo translates.

"Come on. We should let him sleep." Leo tries to steer Yuuri out of the room, but he won't move. He stares at Phichit, terrified.

Phichit flips to the next page and writes 'It's okay. I'm not going anywhere!'

Yuuri tries to smile, but his face crumples and he turns away. This time, he doesn't resist when Leo takes his arm and guides him out into the corridor.

Seeing Yuuri leave – worse, leave upset– is like being torn in half. To distract himself, he writes  _¡_ _Gracias!_ – the only Spanish word he knows – and holds it up for Dr Melucci to see.

She smiles and says something in her kind but firm tone which Phichit assumes is  _go to sleep_.

Already, he can barely keep his eyes open. He puts the notebook and pen on the bedside table and lets nothingness close over him.

…

He wakes in darkness. As his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, he makes out two figures in the plastic chairs against the wall. Yuuri is slumped against Victor, fast asleep; but Victor is awake, and when he realises Phichit is, too, he looks over at him, his expression sharp with concern.

"Do you need anything?" he asks in a whisper, trying not to wake Yuuri. He needn't bother – Yuuri, ever the heavy sleeper, doesn't even stir – but the sweetness of the gesture touches Phichit nonetheless. "Should I call a nurse?"

Phichit shakes his head. He isn't sure whether his reassuring smile is even visible in the darkness.

Victor shifts so Yuuri is leaning against the wall instead of his shoulder; he's so gentle, so careful with him that Phichit's breath catches in his throat. There's no jealousy left, only joy. What else could he feel when his best friend has found someone who treasures him so completely, who is learning to understand him in ways Phichit never did – Phichit, who always thought, arrogantly perhaps, that he was the master of understanding Katsuki Yuuri?

Victor looks over at him again. He's startled by the trepidation, even fear, in Victor's eyes. Victor motions to the chair by Phichit's bed. "Do you mind?"

Phichit shakes his head. Victor kisses Yuuri lightly on the forehead and sits down next to Phichit, fidgeting with his scarf. Finally, without meeting Phichit's eyes, Victor speaks. "You must hate me." His face twists in anguish. "I stole him from you. If I weren't here, he'd love you back, and you wouldn't be…" He trails off.

All this time, Phichit has been so afraid of Yuuri's reaction that he never stopped to consider Victor's. The guilt weighing Victor down is like a physical presence in the air around them.  _I can't unravel all of this for you, but I can try to take some of the burden._

Switching on the bedside lamp, he picks up the notebook. 'First of all,', he writes, 'you didn't steal Yuuri. He's his own person; he knows what he needs. He fell in love with you of his own accord, and I know you won't believe me but I'm so glad he did. You're good for him – I've never seen him happier.'

When Victor finishes reading, he frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Phichit holds up a hand and flips to a new page.

'He's had years to fall in love with me, and he didn't. I'm not the right person for him; you are. And that's no-one's fault – not mine, not Yuuri's, not yours. It just is what it is.'

He smiles, but Victor is having none of it. "It is what it is?" he repeats in a strained whisper. " _Look_  at you, Phichit, you're –"

Phichit holds up his hand again. 'It is what it is, and what it is sucks. I'm twenty years old and I'm dying and I'm not thrilled about it, believe me. But hating you wouldn't change anything.'

Victor is silent for a while, twisting his long fingers in the tassels of his scarf. It's not a comfortable silence, and when Victor speaks again, his words are rushed, as if he cannot bear the quiet any longer. "You know, I thought they'd eradicated hanahaki."

'Well, obviously not,' Phichit scribbles. It's not meant sharply, but Victor swears and strikes his palm against his forehead.

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry."

Phichit waves the apology away. He feels no anger towards Victor; even if he did, he wouldn't have the energy to sustain it. 'It's okay. It's not a well-understood disease – I don't know much about it myself, actually. I made a point of not finding out too much, so everything I know comes from hearsay and having a doctor for a brother and a florist for a father.' He smiles ruefully; Victor draws a sharp breath, his expression a mixture of horror and pity, but doesn't say anything.

'It would've been kinda awkward if Yuuri had caught me reading up on it and wanted to know why I was suddenly interested.' He gives Victor a lopsided grin.

Victor's face is stern. "If he had…"

Phichit looks away pointedly. Yuuri will be on his case about it soon enough; he doesn't need Victor hounding him too. He glances past Victor at Yuuri's sleeping form, his uneasy grin softening into a real smile. Yuuri looks so peaceful; if only he could stay that way. If only the waking world were kinder.  _I wish I wasn't causing you so much pain, Yuuri._  With an effort, he tears his gaze away as a cough forces its way out.

Reaching for the basin beside Phichit's bed, Victor slips his arm around Phichit to support him as he leans forward, spluttering bloody hyacinth petals.

As soon as he can breathe freely, Phichit mouths a 'thank you'. Victor's concern is touching, and the warmth of that feeling soothes the raw pain in his chest a little.

Once he's satisfied Phichit isn't about to collapse again, Victor sits back and puts the basin down, looking stricken. "It was selfish of me to keep talking when you need to rest. Forgive me." He gets to his feet.

Phichit shakes his head and gestures for him to sit down again.

When he reaches for the notebook, it's not there; he must have dropped it during the last bout of coughing. Defeated, he sinks back against the pillows, turning his head so he won't have to see the pity in Victor's eyes. This body is supposed to dance, to fly, not to wither and crumble years before its time.

There's a soft tap on his arm. "Phichit?"

He looks back to see Victor holding out the notebook and pen.

"I'll let you get some sleep, but here. In case you need anything."

'Thanks,' he writes, smiling briefly.

There is a movement behind Victor – Yuuri, waking up. He looks around in confusion as if he can't quite remember where he is, or why. Then he locks eyes with Phichit and his face crumples as everything comes flooding back.

Phichit opens his mouth, ready to comfort Yuuri even if it makes his throat bleed, but Yuuri speaks first. "You should be asleep. Why aren't you asleep?" His own voice is hoarse with exhaustion, and fatigue blunts his words almost to the point of anger. "Victor, did you wake him up?"

"It's not…Victor's…fault." Speaking is like swallowing fire, and it must show in his face, because Yuuri is on his feet now and stumbling towards him, groggy but determined.

"You're in pain." He sees the basin by the bed, sees the blood and the petals that weren't there before. "Oh God. It happened again and I didn't even wake up? That's it, I'm calling a nurse, you need someone to watch you in case… Someone who isn't going to fall asleep when you could have – you could have been choking to death and I wouldn't even have  _known_ , oh God, oh God…"

With a sinking feeling, Phichit watches the panic set in, knowing he's too weak right now to do anything. He can barely speak, let alone help Yuuri through this.

But Victor is at Yuuri's side, ready. "I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder, Yuuri, is that okay?"

A tense nod. Yuuri's eyes are wide, his breathing quick and shallow.

Calmly, Victor places his hand down. "Okay, now breathe with me, Yuuri. That's it. You're doing great."

Slowly, slowly, Yuuri's breathing settles. After a few long minutes, the terror leaves his eyes and he leans into Victor's chest, still shaking, but back from the brink. Phichit sees him reach for the gold band on his finger to steady and centre himself, sees Victor's eyes soften as he does, and knows with a tranquil certainty that Victor is the best person for Yuuri, and Yuuri the best person for him.

Yuuri looks over at Phichit. "Can I sit with you?" he asks in a small voice.

"'Course." Phichit smiles, careful to hide how much that single word hurts. The last thing he wants to do is bring Yuuri's panic crashing back down.

Yuuri sags into the chair by Phichit's bed. He turns to Victor and squeezes his hand. "Go back to the hotel. Get some sleep."

"I'm not leaving either of you. I'm staying right here." Victor leans down and kisses Yuuri's forehead. Glancing guiltily at Phichit, Yuuri jerks away, and Victor stiffly returns to his seat by the wall.

When Yuuri turns to Phichit, his face is a battleground of a thousand different emotions; the air is full of them, swirling currents of grief and anger and confusion and love. Phichit can read them in the downward quirk of Yuuri's lips, the little dent between his eyebrows, the softness in his eyes as Yuuri looks at him.

Neither of them speaks for a long time. One word or a thousand, it wouldn't matter; nothing could undo this tangled web in which they find themselves caught.

Yuuri reaches for Phichit's hand. "Is this okay?"

Phichit hesitates for a second, then nods. Damn the petals, damn what they'll do to his skin. Yuuri's touch, his closeness, is worth it.

Yuuri clasps his uninjured hand around Phichit's. His touch is gentle, but Phichit can feel the desperation humming through him like electricity, his body taut as a piano wire.

_No good. You'll never get back to sleep like that, Yuuri._ He strokes his thumb over Yuuri's skin like he's calming a frightened animal. "Talk…more…tomorrow, 'kay?"

"You promise?" Yuuri's expression is caught halfway between fearful and stern.

"Promise."

Phichit closes his eyes and listens to Yuuri's breathing, drinking in his presence, feeling Yuuri's heartbeat slow to match his own until, finally, sleep claims them both.

…

He drifts in between dreaming and half-waking as if swimming in murky water, never quite breaking the surface of consciousness. The next time he manages to haul himself back to reality, the brightness of the room is bleeding through his closed eyelids and Victor and Yuuri are engaged in a whispered conversation.

"It's not fair." Yuuri's voice is ragged. "Why are they punishing the one who's done nothing wrong?"

The anguish in Yuuri's voice is a knife to Phichit's chest, and there's nothing he wants more in that moment than to comfort Yuuri. But he doesn't have the strength.  _Better leave this to Victor_. He keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even, as if he's still sleeping.

"I know, love, I know," Victor says, low and steady. "None of this is fair. But you haven't done anything wrong. This isn't your fault."

"But it  _is_  –" Yuuri wails, his voice dipping suddenly, sharply. Trying not to wake him. "It is," he whispers. "If I'd noticed earlier – loved him back when I had the chance –"

"Love isn't something you choose, Yuuri. Even if you'd known, who's to say that would have changed anything? Neither of you chose this. No-one is to blame."

Neither Yuuri nor Victor has noticed Phichit listening. "I hate this," Yuuri continues quietly. "I hate what it's doing to him and I hate not being able to do anything and I hate that it's my fault, it  _is,_  I don't care what you say, Victor. It's – it's  _killing_  him.  _I'm_  killing him. And I can't fucking do anything to stop it –"

Phichit can't bear it any longer. He opens his eyes. "Yuuri. Stop. Please."

Yuuri inhales sharply, guilt clouding his face. "Phichit –"

Phichit cuts him off before he launches into an apology. "Victor's right…'s not… your fault."

Yuuri stares at him. "Whose is it, then?" he demands, his own voice almost as hoarse as Phichit's, his uninjured hand balled tightly into a fist on his knee. He shrugs off the hand Victor places on his arm. Anger radiates off him, desperately seeking a target.

Phichit sighs. Yuuri is so used to blaming himself when things go wrong that Phichit suspects he hasn't worked out how to solve problems without hurting himself in the process. "Not everything… 's someone's… fault."

"But if you didn't love me –"

"– wouldn't've spent…six years…on…top of… the world."

"And you wouldn't have spent the past six days in hospital!"

_It's been_ six days? Shocked, Phichit looks over to Victor for confirmation, but Yuuri isn't finished.

"You'd actually have a  _fucking future_ ," Yuuri snaps.

Yuuri almost never swears.

"I wouldn't wake up every day terrified you'll be  _gone_  –"

His breath hitches, and Phichit jumps in before Yuuri can continue. "Sticking around… for as long… as I can. Not getting… rid of me… that easily." He grins.

Yuuri turns on him. "Stop treating this like it's some kind of game! Phichit, for fuck's sake, I watched you  _suffocate_  –"

"'Cause you… take my… breath away."

As soon as the words have ripped themselves from his throat, he regrets them.

Yuuri jumps to his feet. Victor puts a hand on his arm again to hold him back, but Yuuri slaps it away with such force that Victor gasps. He glowers down at Phichit, seething. "Shut. Up."

He moves his arm; for a terrible moment, Phichit is afraid Yuuri will slap him, too. But instead he impatiently brushes away the tears welling up in his eyes. " _Shut up_ ," he hisses again. "This is hard enough without your  _stupid_  jokes and your  _stupid_  inability to take anything seriously for a  _single fucking second –"_

The sharpness of Yuuri's anger touches off something in Phichit. Hauling himself up so he is eye level with Yuuri, he interrupts coldly, "Hard… for you… is it?"

"Yes," Yuuri snaps back. "Watching your best friend fucking fall apart in front of you isn't exactly fun."

There's a wildness in Yuuri's eyes; he can't have slept properly in days. Phichit knows he should stop pushing, but the anger burning inside him won't let up. He's been holding himself together in silence for five years. Surely, surely, he is allowed to let go now.

"Oh… really? Forgotten… which of us… is  _dying_?"

It's the first time he's said it aloud to Yuuri, and Yuuri recoils as if he's been struck. But the anger is flowing too freely for Phichit to care.

"Didn't…think you were…selfish." He knows he's being unfair, but he can't stop. "Maybe I was…wrong."

"What about you? Ever thought about what happens to the rest of us after – afterwards? We're the ones who have to pick up the pieces and carry on like anything still makes sense!" Yuuri yells, his shoulders shaking.

"At least…you get… to carry on! Some… of us… don't!"

"Well maybe if you'd actually said something before it was too fucking late instead of keeping secrets like some stupid  _kid_ , you would! I can't believe you're choosing to die over an idiotic crush –"

"So now it's… _my_  fault?" He's beyond pain, beyond caring. "You think… I chose this?" He twists the knife. "That… I  _deserve_  this?"

Yuuri opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an incoherent cry. He looks down at Phichit like he barely recognises him, then turns and dashes out of the room.

Victor is on his feet before Yuuri is through the doorway, but he doesn't try to stop him. As he hurries after Yuuri, he looks back at Phichit, his face grim. "I have to go after him. I'm sorry," he says, the sharp edge of anger clipping his words, and then he's gone.

All of Phichit's pent-up anger drains away, and remorse rushes in to fill the vacuum, crashing over him in an awful wave. Weakly, he scrabbles for the basin, just in time. The surge of bloody, rotten petals overwhelms him, and all he can think through the tearing agony is  _thank God Yuuri isn't here._  He's caused Yuuri enough pain already.

When he can breathe again, he closes his eyes and leans back against the pillows, exhausted.  _I'm not sure how much longer I can do this_.

There's a cough from the doorway, and his heart thuds against his ribs. But when he opens his eyes, it's Leo who is standing by the door. "Can we come in?"

_We?_  Confused, Phichit looks over Leo's shoulder and sees Guang-Hong standing behind him, smiling nervously.  _Wait. How long has he been here? I didn't know – I didn't even say hi…_  He's too tired for this, but he's hurt enough feelings for today, so he smiles as brightly as he can and waves them over. "Didn't realise… you were both… here." He waves an arm vaguely at the room. "Welcome… to Barcelona."

Leo gives him a half-hearted smile and hurries in, followed by Guang-Hong, who says, "Hey, um, I don't wanna pry, but we could hear the yelling from the waiting room. What was that about?"

Phichit sighs. "We had a fight." His throat is raw, and every word stings like salt.

Both Leo and Guang-Hong wince, and Leo says, "That's rough, I'm sorry."

He shrugs, then regrets it as his injured chest twinges. "Said… stuff… we shouldn't've –" He hisses with pain.

Leo springs forward to fetch the notebook and pen. "You should probably still be resting your voice. Here –" His eyes go wide, and he almost drops the notebook. "What the  _hell_  happened to your hand?"

Phichit looks down at his left hand and realises with a sick sinking heart that the bark has spread from his wrist up to the knuckles. The pad of his thumb is dry and dark, and when he presses it with his right hand, he feels nothing.

He takes the notebook and pen from Leo and writes, 'Fun new hanahaki side effect'.

Guang-Hong looks like he's about to cry.

Phichit carries on, 'It wasn't Yuuri's fault we fought. He should be out celebrating, not stuck here. He's probably still in shock.'

"It was a shock to us all, Phichit," Leo says quietly. Guang-Hong nods, brushing back tears.

Leo squeezes Guang-Hong's hand, and Guang-Hong nuzzles his cheek against Leo's shoulder, sniffling. They both glance guiltily at Phichit and spring apart.

Phichit sighs. 'I'm not gonna keel over just because you're holding hands,' he writes. 'Relax.'

"But doesn't it hurt?" Guang-Hong asks. "It feels like we're rubbing it in your face or something."

'This disease sucks. But I'm not about to become bitter in my old age and start hating the world and his husband just for being in love." He flashes them a reassuring smile. 'This might sound cheesy as hell, but seeing anyone being happy with anyone else makes me happy, too.'

"Really?" Guang-Hong says. "So Yuuri and Victor… It doesn't make it worse?"

Phichit shakes his head, still smiling. 'I made my peace with that a long time ago. I'll admit the engagement came as a shock, though.'

"A lot of things have come as a shock these past few days." Leo says, sadness tinging his smile. "I think we're all gonna need some time to process everything. Speaking of which…" He and Guang-Hong share a look. "We should probably let you be. I hope you patch things up with Yuuri soon."

'Me too. Thanks, guys,' Phichit writes, and watches Guang-Hong slip his hand into Leo's as the two of them leave the room.

The next thing he knows, he's being jolted awake by someone knocking on the door.

Yuuri. His eyes are red and swollen, and he looks as wretched as Phichit feels. He gives Phichit a searching look, and Phichit motions for him to come in. Yuuri lets out the breath he's been holding and steps into the room, but his steps falter and he stays hovering awkwardly by the door.

For a long, painful moment, silence reigns, the shadows of hurt and anger clouding the air between them.

They reach for the same words at the same time, Phichit in strained Japanese, Yuuri in quiet Thai.

"I'm sorry."

The shadows lighten a little as they share something that is almost a smile. Then Phichit sighs, and writes, 'Can I go first?'

Yuuri looks distraught when he sees Phichit using the notebook again, but he nods. Phichit is grateful that Yuuri is letting him take partial responsibility. They must be honest with each other if they are to mend what has broken, must accept they both had a hand in breaking it.

'I'm sorry for calling you selfish, Yuuri. If anyone's been selfish, it's me. This whole time, I thought I was trying to protect you, but I never thought about what would happen once you found out.' Not since that first night when the flowers broke through the stable ground beneath his feet and uprooted everything he thought he knew about his future. Even writing those words is like clawing the truth out of his own guts. He has been pushing away the thought, filing it away to be dealt with in some vague, nebulous  _after_. 'I'm really sorry, Yuuri.' There is little he can offer except a watery smile. 'Sorry for what I said and for what I did.'

Yuuri sighs. "What you said doesn't bother me – I said far worse to you, and I'm really, truly sorry about that. But what you did…" He pauses, marshalling his emotions. "What you did, putting me before yourself – putting my  _feelings_  before your  _life_ … Honestly, I'm furious with you for treating yourself like that. I know that sounds harsh, but…"

Yuuri's words hurt, but only because he knows Yuuri has a point.

"When I think you could have put an end to this years ago …"

'There was never any solution,' Phichit writes, the scratching of the pen on the notepaper stopping Yuuri before he can finish.

"Of course there was! You could have had the operation – you wouldn't even have had to tell me, if that's what you were so worried about!"

'Yuuri, you know what the op would have done.'

"Kept you alive!" Yuuri explodes, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Avoided all of this!"

"Yuuri." He forces the words out despite the pain in his throat; they have to be said, not written. "I love you. The last thing… I wanted… was for you… to be unhappy."  _I knew it was going to tear me apart, but I wanted to stop it doing the same to you. I never wanted this, I swear. I never wanted you to destroy yourself for my sake._

Yuuri stares at Phichit like he is speaking a different language. "Happy?" he repeats. "How did you ever expect me to be  _happy_  watching you fade away like this?"

They eye each other warily across a chasm which Phichit doesn't know how to bridge. How can he explain the operation was never an option? That, for him, a life without love would be no life at all? His love for Yuuri – and Yuuri's for him, different though it might be – have coloured and shaped his world, filled it with meaning and light. Love is everything to Phichit, on the ice and off it, and the instinct for it comes to him as naturally as breathing. Take that away and what would he have been left with?

_Why don't you understand, Yuuri? I thought you knew me. I thought I knew you._

Just as his frustration is about to boil over and spark against Yuuri's anger again, a terrible thought occurs to him.

'Yuuri,' he writes, 'if you're trying to provoke me into not loving you, that's not gonna work.'

To his surprise, Yuuri starts crying.

"Why do you always… see the best… in people? Even when we're… fighting… you assume… I'm trying to h-help," he sobs. "Oh, Phichit…" Yuuri rushes forward and wraps his arms around him.

Phichit hesitates, but leans into the hug, trying to ignore the numbness spreading through his arm where their bare skin meets. The warmth in his chest is worth it.

When Yuuri's breath has returned to normal, he steps back and fixes Phichit with a steady, determined look. "If we're going to fix this, we need to be totally honest with each other from now on."

Phichit nods.

"I…" Yuuri falters, sighs. "Can I… do you mind if I sit?"

It's odd for him even to ask, as if they're strangers meeting for the first time, not best friends of six years' standing. Phichit hopes that his grin and the shake of his head communicate the  _of course not, Yuuri_  that he is too tired to write. In any case, Yuuri sits down and pulls the chair closer to Phichit.

"When I say total honesty, I mean it. I mean not holding anything back." He looks pointedly at Phichit, who finds himself quailing under the weight of what is almost a glare.

Phichit nods again, steeling himself.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore."

The words hit Phichit with the force of a physical blow. Tears catch in his throat and sting the backs of his eyes. Wordless, he looks to Yuuri to soften the pain, to tell him he didn't mean what he just said.

There is nothing cold in Yuuri's face, but neither is there any comfort. He looks lost, helpless – afraid, even. "I thought we understood each other. But to find out you've been hiding something this big from me the whole time…" He looks at Phichit imploringly. "Was any of it real?"

'Any of what?' he writes.

"I thought you were  _happy_. This whole time, I thought you were happy. Was that all just an act?"

'Of course not,' he scribbles.

"But you were in pain –"

He holds up a hand. 'And I didn't tell you because I didn't want to cause you pain as well. Living with you – those were the best years of my life.'

Yuuri flinches. "Don't."

'I'm being honest!'

"No, I mean don't put it like that. Like your life is already over." There's a spark of defiance in Yuuri's eyes. Phichit isn't sure whether to feel comforted or afraid.

'It's certainly a lot shorter than I was hoping for,' he writes, the half-hearted levity in the words falling flat as the reality looms over him again.

The fear must show in his face, because Yuuri's expression switches instantly from combative to concerned. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking – upsetting you just to get things off my chest –" He stands, swaying slightly with exhaustion. "God, I'm so sorry. I'll let you rest."

'Yuuri. It's okay. Sit down,' he scribbles hastily.

"No. Total honesty. We agreed. No more  _I'm fine, it's okay_  when you're  _not_  fine and it's  _not_  okay and everything is  _wrong –"_

He catches Yuuri's sleeve, careful not to touch his hand. "Am being… honest," he rasps. "'s okay. Please. Sit down."

"Only if you promise not to talk again until your throat heals."

'Hey, you used to say you liked listening to me. Even told me I had a good voice.' Phichit writes, risking a mock-indignant pout.

To his relief, Yuuri replies with a tiny smile. "You," he says, "are incorrigible."

Phichit sticks his tongue out. Yuuri's answering laugh is a burst of warmth against the pain in his chest.

"I guess I was wrong."

'About what?'

"You faking… this. Being happy. Being  _you_."

'The only fake thing about me is usually my nails, Yuuri, and even they're real at the moment.'

Yuuri snorts. It's the first time since the medal ceremony that Phichit has seen his raw, unguarded happiness, and it fills him with a joy so bright it is blinding.

"As I said. Incorrigible."

…

"What's in the bag, Victor?" His throat has healed well, and the words don't cause him any real pain.

Victor glances at the bag at his feet. "Oh, um, Makka needs a new bed. It's almost her birthday, so…"

"That's so sweet!" But Makkachin must be getting on in years, and he's never met her, just as he never met Vicchan. "Will you bring her to visit me sometime?"

Before Victor can answer, Yuuri steps through the door. He flashes Victor a conspiratorial glance, and giggles.

"What's going on, you two?" Phichit demands. He catches sight of something moving in Yuuri's jacket pocket. "Is that a hamster in your pocket, Yuuri, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Two beady eyes and a twitching nose poke out of the pocket, followed by a pair of tiny ears.

"Oh my God, that actually  _is_  a hamster. Yuuri, how'd you smuggle a hamster into a hospital?"

"Compared to smuggling three into a student dorm, this was a piece of cake," Yuuri laughs. "She's yours, by the way."

Phichit takes her eagerly, hoping Yuuri won't ask why Phichit is wearing his skating gloves.  _It's not lying if he doesn't ask._  "Where am I gonna keep her? I gave away the Schuylers' old cage –"

Grinning, Victor produces a shiny new hamster cage out of the bag at his feet. It looks suspiciously similar to the one Yuuri had to talk him out of buying all those years ago.

Phichit gapes. "You mean you didn't buy Makka a new bed?"

"That can wait until I get back to St Petersburg," Victor laughs. "I figured this was more important."

"Oh my God, guys,  _thank you._  I'd give you a hug, but my hands are kind of full right now." He looks down at the sandy hamster cupped in his hands. "Hello, little one."

"Any idea what you're going to call her?" Yuuri asks.

Phichit grins; he's been planning this since Eliza died. He starts to sing.  _"Dear Theodosia, what to say to you…_ "

Yuuri laughs at Victor's puzzled expression. "Youth culture, love. You wouldn't understand it."

Victor sniffs theatrically, folding his arms. "Young people these days are so  _rude_. I can't wait to get back to Makka – at least she understands me."

Suddenly, Phichit has an idea. "Hey, Yuuri, d'you remember that coat I made Vicchan and never got round to sending?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I kept it, for some reason. D'you think it'd fit Makka?"

Yuuri smiles. "I think it just might."

…

"By the way, Yuuri, what happened to your hand?"

Yuuri looks down at his splinted fingers. "Um."

"It was the sunflower's fault, really," Victor says with a half-smile.

Phichit raises an eyebrow. Victor nudges Yuuri, who doesn't look up. Phichit sighs. "Total honesty, remember? We agreed."

Yuuri makes a face. "Before you passed out, you grabbed my hand really hard, and… yeah."

"Shit, Yuuri, I'm really sorry."

Yuuri shakes his head. "Don't apologise for that, apologise for worrying the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Phichit says sheepishly.

"I guess it's my turn to ask a question. When were you planning to tell me about this?" Yuuri asks, looking away.

Phichit reaches for his phone and finds the video. "This would've been my exhibition skate if you'd left me any room on the podium," he grins, passing the phone to Yuuri. "I was gonna tell you afterwards it was dedicated to you."

The Phichit on the screen stands in the middle of the rink, arms at his sides, head bowed. After a second of silence, the intro begins to play, and Phichit unfurls.

His movements are tender, unhurried, filled with the same warmth as the sonorous voice that starts to sing as Phichit enters a lazy spin.

_Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you._

His blades caress the ice and he moves across it languidly, lovingly, like he has all the time in the world.  _Shall I stay?_  he asks, reaching towards an imagined Yuuri, an imagined future. But it's a question that has already been answered.

He twists his body and drifts back across the rink, surrendering to a current he cannot fight.  _Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling, so it goes…_

_Darling. Tîi rák._ He's never dared use the expression to Yuuri's face, but out here on the ice, with his heart laid bare, he can finally be honest.

The current pulls him in towards the centre again, faster and faster, until he drops into a hydroblade right in the middle of the rink. He goes still, as if this is everything he has to give.  _Some things are meant to be_.

But the music is still going, and he unfolds back onto his feet in an impossible burst of energy. He stretches towards Yuuri, palms open and fingers spread, one final desperate appeal, and drops to one knee.  _Take my hand. Take my whole life too._

His appeal goes unanswered; he knows it must, and instead of anguish there is softness, acceptance. He smiles, and loops through a gentle sequence as the music repeats and draws inexorably towards the only possible conclusion.  _For I can't help falling in love with you_.

The video ends, and Phichit looks up from the phone to find Yuuri frozen, staring at the still image of Phichit on the screen.

Victor has to pry the phone from his grasp as if from the fingers of a dead man. He slides it back onto the bedside table with the ghost of a smile. "I wish you'd had the chance to tell us like this."

Phichit's smile is as fragile as Victor's. "Yeah. Me too."

…

The same day Phichit is discharged, the others fly home for their respective Nationals, which are fast approaching. Phichit, too, is going home at last, but without Celestino.

"It's a shame this season got cut short," Celestino says, his voice trembling unexpectedly. "But I'm so proud of you and of everything you've achieved, Phichit. You should be, too." He pulls Phichit into a crushing hug, then draws back, his face ashen. "As your coach, I should have realised sooner that something was seriously wrong, and I shouldn't have pushed you to compete when you clearly weren't on form. I let you down, Phichit. I'm so sorry."

"If one more person apologises to me for something which is  _not their fault_ , I'm gonna throw up, and not because of these stupid flowers. It was me that refused to see a doctor. No doctor would've cleared me to compete, and getting to the final – performing in Barcelona with Yuuri and everyone else – meant everything to me. I never would've got there without you, Ciao Ciao." He hugs Celestino again, letting him go when he feels Celestino's shoulders shaking.

Celestino gives him a weak smile. "I'd better go, or I'll miss my flight," he says hoarsely. " _Ciao_. Take care of yourself, Phichit." He clasps Phichit's hand in a final handshake and hurries out into the corridor without looking back.

That only leaves Yuuri and Victor. Guang-Hong has been back in China for two days already, and Leo left the day after that, after repeated assurances from Phichit that he'd manage getting kicked out of hospital without an interpreter.

He turns to the two of them. "Thanks for sticking around, guys. I know you could've been practising – I hope I haven't messed things up for you too much!"

Victor slides an arm around Yuuri and hugs him close. "My Yuuri is the Grand Prix Final silver medallist, don't forget. A little thing like Nationals…" He waves his hand dismissively.

Phichit glances at Yuuri, but Yuuri seems happy to go along with Victor's boasting for now. "My routine is pretty fresh. I'm not too worried," he says mildly. "Some strings were pulled…" He glances slyly at Victor. "They've been letting me use the competition rink for practice."

"You've been practising? When?"

"We can't all afford to sleep all day, you know," Yuuri grins. The grin disappears as his expression turns to one of horrified guilt. "I'm sorry, that was –"

"Absolutely fine, Yuuri." He smiles and squeezes Yuuri's hand through his gloves. "I'm glad you haven't just been sitting around watching me sleep. That sounds super boring. And creepy."

Yuuri laughs, his expression clearing, and squeezes his hand back. "How do you know I haven't been flooding Instagram with pictures of you sleeping with your mouth open?"

"One: I do  _not_  sleep with my mouth open. Two: I wouldn't've been able to move for notifications. Three: you hardly ever post anything." He rolls his eyes. "I don't know how I even got you to start using Instagram in the first place, granddad."

"Careful, that's my fiancé you're insulting," Victor says, a protective arm around Yuuri.

"Hey, if anyone should be called 'granddad', it's you." Yuuri pokes Victor in the stomach. "Remind us who's turning twenty-eight soon?"

Victor, stunned, doesn't answer, and Phichit crows, "I think he's forgotten. Happens a lot when you're that old."

"You always were forgetful, weren't you, love?" Yuuri teases, stretching up to plant a placating kiss on Victor's cheek.

Victor takes Yuuri's face in his hands and meets Yuuri's lips with his own.

After a moment of surprise, Yuuri throws his arms around Victor's neck and leans into the kiss.

Phichit looks away. Not out of jealousy or hurt, but because this is a private moment, not meant for him; the two of them have forgotten he's even there. That expression of trust – knowing he's one of the few people around whom Yuuri truly lets his guard down – makes Phichit glow like he's just drunk a mug of the world's best hot chocolate. It's the kind of warmth the flowers thrive in, but he ignores the pressure in his chest, swallows down the few petals that force themselves to the surface. Yuuri's happiness is worth it.

After perhaps a minute, Yuuri clears his throat. "Um, sorry, Phichit –"

"What'd I say about apologising?"

"Sorry – argh, no, I mean –"

Flustered Yuuri is among Phichit's favourite Yuuris. The way his eyes go wide and his cheeks get pink, the way he makes small, inarticulate noises as he searches for the right words, even the way he buries his face in the front of Victor's coat to hide his embarrassment.

His arm around Yuuri, Victor says, "Well, I suppose we'd better get going if we want to get to the airport on time."

Yuuri reluctantly extricates himself from Victor's coat and glances at Phichit in concern. "Sure you don't want a wheelchair?"

Dr Melucci has been trying to convince him it would make things easier, but he's still adamant he doesn't want one.

"I'll be fine, Yuuri," he says, yet again.

They're getting a taxi from the hospital to the airport; surely he'll be able to manage the short distance from here to the hospital entrance? He's an international athlete, after all.

_Was_ , says the insidious voice.  _Was an international athlete_.

It turns out even walking to the lifts at the end of the corridor is beyond him. His body, unhappy that after so long without exercise he has the audacity to make it move, is rebelling against him, and more than once he has to stop and steady himself against the wall, his vision swimming.

"I  _knew_  we should have listened to Dr Melucci," Yuuri says the first time it happens.

"Oh, shut up, you." Phichit sticks his tongue out at Yuuri and staggers upright again. "I'm fine."

The second time, he doesn't have the breath to cry out as he stumbles.

"All right, come here," Yuuri says, arm out to stop Phichit falling. Once Phichit is steady, he crouches down, reaching his arms out behind him. "Think you can get on?" he says over his shoulder.

Phichit nods, wraps his arms loosely around Yuuri's neck, and clambers up into the piggyback.

"God, Phichit, you're so  _light_ ," Yuuri frets, carrying Phichit along the corridor. "We've got to feed you up. Sure I can't convince you to come back to Hasetsu with me? Nothing like my mum's katsudon for piling on the pounds."

Phichit says nothing as Yuuri sets him down in the lift. He'll never see Hasetsu, and Yuuri knows that.

As the doors slide shut, Victor smiles slyly at Yuuri. "As your coach, I should forbid you to eat anything so unhealthy at least until Nationals are over. But as your proud fiancé…" He slips an arm around Yuuri's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. "…I think I might make an exception."

"How generous," Yuuri grins up at Victor. "Honestly, Mum will be so heartbroken I didn't bring you home, she'll probably refuse to cook for me anyway."

The lift comes to a stop, and Yuuri disentangles himself from Victor, sliding an arm around Phichit to support him as they step out into the hospital lobby.

Phichit doesn't protest, although he wants to. His legs are already threatening to give out; much as he hates having to rely on Yuuri, the indignity of falling would be worse.

"I've been wondering what the in-laws will make of me," Victor muses.

"Mum and Dad already adore you, Victor, you know that. They can't wait for you and Makka to be part of the family."

Phichit feels a flash of the old jealousy, quick and scalding. Victor has met Yuuri's family, stayed in Yuuri's home; Phichit hasn't.  _You_ were _his family, in a way,_  he reminds himself before the jealousy can do any damage.  _You shared a home for five years. Victor still has some catching up to do._

"Are you sure they're not just pretending to like me so they'll get to see Makka?" Victor grins. "Your sister clearly prefers her to me."

"Mari might give you a hard time to start with, but that's just her protective instincts kicking in. She's only trying to look out for her poor innocent younger brother."

Phichit snorts. "Frankly, Yuuri, after that short programme, I don't think anyone could accuse you of being innocent." The media certainly aren't; the newspapers can't get enough of Japan's new sex symbol, and the headlines have been plentiful.

Yuuri reddens.

"It's a shame we missed the banquet," Victor says. "I was looking forward to another display, Yuuri."

The tips of Yuuri's ears are now bright pink.

"Oh man, that would've been great. It's ages since I saw you do pole," Phichit joins in.

"You've seen Yuuri dance?" Victor's stare is envious.

"We took classes together," Phichit grins, watching Victor's hand tighten on Yuuri's shoulder. "Our friend signed us up as an April Fool's joke. Yuuri's always been better than me, though."

"'s good for your core strength," Yuuri mumbles sheepishly.

"That's what Chris says to try to convince me I should go with him. I'm sure that's not why he does it." Victor laughs. "Maybe I should say yes next time."

Yuuri buries his head in his hands.

Phichit giggles. "Just don't take any photos. I think you'd break the internet."

When the taxi arrives, Victor scoops a mortified Yuuri up in his arms, bridal style, and Phichit opens the door so Victor can deposit him inside.

Yuuri is blushing more fiercely than ever, but his lips quirk up at the edges, and when he says, "Save it for the big day, Victor," there's more excitement than reproach in his voice.

Phichit's chest tightens as he and Victor climb in and Victor continues, "Speaking of which, I've been thinking. Hawaii in June's going to be pretty hot – what d'you reckon we should wear? Seems a shame to pass up the opportunity to see you in a suit, but…"

Yuuri shoots him a warning look. Victor doesn't take the hint.

"I was thinking we probably shouldn't wear the same colour. That's boring."

"Victor –" Yuuri tries to break in, but Victor is too caught up in his planning to notice.

"White would look better on you, anyway –"

Yuuri, eyes wide, is desperately signalling for him to stop. " _Victor –"_

"– although we'll have to make sure we're co-ordinated with each other, and then of course there's the flowers –  _oh_." He slaps a hand to his forehead. "Fuck. Sorry, Phichit."

Phichit stares out of the window, silent.  _How on earth did you pull this off, Nikiforov?_  How did Victor – as graceless off the ice as he is graceful on it – manage to blunder his way into Yuuri's heart while Phichit watched from the sidelines, studying Yuuri like a masterpiece to be handled with the utmost care?

"My fiancé is an idiot. I apologise," Yuuri says in Japanese, then switches back to English. "Phichit, if you'd rather not come to – to the wedding, that's okay."

"Are you kidding, Yuuri? I wouldn't miss it for the  _world._ "

"But – when I asked you to be best man – I didn't know –"

"Hey, at least you didn't ask me to be the flower girl. Or flower boy, or whatever."  _Although God knows I would have said yes anyway._

Yuuri laughs, but it's an uneasy laugh, and the rest of the mercifully short ride to the airport passes in silence.

Phichit is grateful his is the first flight to leave. He's not sure how much longer he can hold himself together in front of Yuuri. The  _goodbyes_  and the  _good lucks_  and the  _see you in a few months_ stick in his throat, and hugging Yuuri leaves his body aching with want and pain.

In front of his mother, who comes to meet him when he touches down in Bangkok, he doesn't even try to stay composed. When she scoops him up in her arms and whispers, "Welcome home, baby," in a voice that betrays only the slightest tremor, he allows himself to break at last.

The journey home is a blur, and he registers only snatches – the flash of a lone reporter's camera, the shocking blue of the sky, his father at the front door looking older than Phichit remembers, Somchai muttering 'you idiot' and engulfing him in a hug so tight it hurts.

He doesn't dare pull away, although he can barely breathe. Somchai almost never hugs him; who knows how many more chances he'll have?

…

"Phichit, honey? You've got a visitor."

His heart leaps.  _Yuuri_ , he thinks immediately, although that's impossible – Japanese Nationals are tomorrow. But who else could it be? The others will be preparing for Nationals too, and if it were anyone closer to home, his mother wouldn't have bothered to announce them; he's had a more or less constant stream of well-wishers since he came back, everyone from his mother's work colleagues and Somchai's classmates to the Phongpaichit family from the grocer's down the street. It's exhausting, but he doesn't have the heart to turn anyone away.

"Come in!" He props himself up in bed and scrabbles to make himself presentable, running a hand through his hair and straightening the collar of his pyjamas.

The door opens, and Ketty barrels in.

"K!" he squeaks as she crushes him in a hug.  _How on earth – I didn't – there's no way I'm famous enough for it to have made the news, not in America –_

"I came as soon as I heard," she says into his shoulder, without loosening her grip.

"All the way from Detroit? Damn," he grins, and Ketty begins to shake.

His stomach sinks. Plenty of people have cried over him in the past few days, but that's different; when it's a family friend, he can always send them downstairs to be consoled by his mother. He can't do that to Ketty.

Then she tips her head back and her laughter fills the room.

"Oh my God, Phichit, it's so good to see you!" She wraps her arms around him even more tightly for a moment, then lets go and stands back, eyes narrowed, arms folded. "But you are in  _so_  much trouble, mister. Can you believe I had to find out from  _Yuuri_?"

"He texted you?"

"Skyped me, actually. At 4AM." She laughs. "It was really good to see him, P." She hops up beside him on the bed and rests her head on his shoulder.

"I've missed you."

Ketty squeezes his hand. "Same here." Letting go of his hand, she puts both hands on his shoulders and fixes him with a stern look. "That doesn't mean I'm not absolutely furious with you, though. Why the fuck didn't you  _say_  something?" She sighs.

"Didn't want you to worry," he says in a small voice.

"What exactly did you think was going to happen in the long term?"

"Wasn't thinking about the long term," he mumbles, and waits for her face to soften in pity, waits for the inevitable  _you poor thing, of course you didn't want to._

Instead, she punches him lightly on the arm and says matter-of-factly, "No-one lives forever, you know."

From anyone else, that would be cold, even cruel; but Ketty has always been direct.

"I was gonna be the first."

"You've collected a fair amount of firsts already. First person from South-East Asia to reach the Grand Prix Final –"

"– first to beat you at Mario Kart –"

"Yeah, I'm never gonna get over that one. But seriously, leave some firsts for other people."

"Fair enough." He leans against her, suddenly out of breath. "Sorry…I didn't tell you… earlier."

Ketty puts her arm around him. "And I'm sorry I didn't notice anything was wrong. But I expect you've heard enough of that from our favourite dork."

"Speaking of apologies… sorry to make you… fly out all the way… from Detroit."

"New York, actually. And I'd go to the moon and back for you, P, you know that."

Gratitude wells up inside him, but all he can say is, "Didn't know… you'd moved."

Ketty smiles. "I've got some news of my own. I was gonna tell you when I found out, but…"

He jumps in before the unfinished sentence can weigh them both down. "You can tell me now."

"I didn't tell you I'd applied in case I didn't get it, but… I'm gonna be the Young Concert Artists composer-in-residence next year! The position starts in January, so I had to move quickly."

"Oh my God, K, that's fantastic! Well done you." He hugs her tightly. "New York, though… That's gotta be pricey."

"They help with accommodation and stuff. And the prize money doesn't hurt. How d'you think I could afford flight tickets at such short notice?" Her face falls. "Sorry, P. Didn't mean to make you feel bad."

"The only thing making me feel bad is these fucking flowers."

Ketty puts her arm around his waist and he leans into her shoulder again.

"I hate it, K. I hate it so fucking much."

"I know. It's a real bitch."

There's something in her tone which makes Phichit lift his head to look at her.

"Lost a cousin to it when I was ten. She was a lot older than me, but we were pretty close. When she got sick…" She winces and pulls Phichit closer. "Anyway. Yeah. I don't know what you're going through, obviously, but when I say I hate it, I mean that."

"It's just so  _unfair_ ," Phichit says quietly.

Ketty nods. "Trust me, if hanahaki were a person, I'd kick them in the nuts."

Phichit laughs. "Thanks."

For a while, they chat about nothing in particular – Ketty's first impressions of New York, memories from Detroit, Theodosia, Ketty's cat Khachaturian. "He's fifteen now, and looking pretty ropey, but he's still the same grumpy old sod he's always been."

"Hey, I'm not doing too badly in cat years, then. And in hamster years I'm, like,  _ancient_."

Ketty chuckles.

It's nice just being in Ketty's company, knowing he doesn't have to hold back, knowing she won't jump down his throat if he makes a joke. Much as he loves Yuuri, navigating everyone's emotions when he and Victor visit in the off season won't be easy.

"How long are you staying for?"

"I've got a cheap hotel for a few nights, don't worry."

"Cancel that."

"Phichit," Ketty laughs, incredulous, "I'm not inviting myself to stay. Turning up on your doorstep unannounced was bad enough."

"You're not inviting yourself. I'm inviting you."

"I can't ask your parents to –"

"Course you can. You can stay as long as you like – you could come for Songkran, too, if you wanted. You can have the spare bedroom, and everyone else should be able to fit in the living room. Even if, like, the entire Russian skating team decided to show up." A mischievous smile flits across his face. "I might put my foot down if His Majesty King JJ makes an appearance, though. You know he actually had the nerve to send me  _flowers_  when I was in the hospital?"

Ketty gasps. "He didn't."

"Lilies, too."

"What a jerk."

"Took me and Victor at least half an hour to talk Yuuri out of flying straight to Canada to kick his ass."

"You should've let him," Ketty grins.

"Nah, I don't think he meant it maliciously. He was just stupid enough to give me the one thing guaranteed to make me feel worse." He gestures to his desk, which is covered in cards and crumpled wrapping paper. "I've had cards from skaters I've never even met and pretty much every one that I have. Other Yuri sent me a cat plushie to go with my hamster one, and Guang-Hong brought me a metric ton of chocolate when he and Leo visited me in hospital." He reaches for the open box on his bedside table and hands it to Ketty. "Here, have some. No-one else in my family really likes it and I don't think I'll be able to finish it all before – before my stomach explodes."

Ketty gives no sign of having heard the catch in his voice. Mouth full of chocolate, she says doubtfully, "Sure it's okay for me to stay?"

"It's more than okay. Mum's always wanted to meet my friends – she and Dad could never come to visit or to see competitions, what with the animal hospital and the shop, so you're actually the first one she's met. Be nice to have company while I'm stressing over Nationals, anyway."

"I'm sure everyone will do fine," Ketty says, but for the first time Phichit can remember, she sounds uncertain.

…

Even with Ketty around, watching everyone else's Nationals go by is a lonely experience; Phichit can only pretend the heaviness in his chest is pride. Leo and Guang-Hong both medal, although Guang-Hong's short programme is shaky, and Leo's free skate is less assured than it should be.

Then come Swiss Nationals, and Phichit watches in horror as Chris completely falls apart. The commentators endlessly debate the reasons for the unexpected disaster, but Phichit knows what – or rather who – is really to blame, although he doesn't understand why Chris of all people should be so affected.

Some of Chris's fans agree with Phichit's apportioning of blame, and eventually he asks Ketty to manage his Instagram for him until the trolls get bored and leave him alone.

Russian Nationals are something of a relief. Victor makes a triumphant return, beating Other Yuri to gold; while everyone's attention is consumed by the drama of their rivalry, Phichit risks a foray back into social media.

It doesn't last. Most of his fans are pleasant and respectful, but there are always those who take things too far, and when he realises some people blame Yuuri unfairly for his condition, he puts down his phone before he can read any more of their comments. He doesn't need to know what vile things people are writing about Yuuri.

When it's Yuuri's turn for Nationals, Phichit can hardly bear to watch. Guilt at his lack of faith is burning a hole in his stomach, but the truth is he is afraid; he can't stop thinking about Chris stumbling on his first jump and never getting back on track, can't stop seeing the defeated look in his eyes as he sloped off the ice. Watching Chris was like reliving Sochi all over again. If Yuuri falls here, Phichit won't be able to forgive himself.

As it is, Yuuri comes in second, with a near-perfect technical score. But there is something empty about his performances; there is nothing of Yuuri in either of them. No playfulness, no passion – no emotion at all. The blank look in his eyes as he runs flawlessly, but joylessly, through the motions of his programmes cuts Phichit to the core.

It costs Yuuri first place; he takes silver, leaving gold to a tiny blond skater named Minami Kenjirou who reminds Phichit a little of his younger self.

Silver will do just fine for Yuuri's comeback, though. He calls Yuuri to congratulate him.

Yuuri smiles when he sees Phichit, but it doesn't last. He looks exhausted, washed out, nothing like a national silver medallist. "I already know what Victor's going to be lecturing me on for the whole of our flight. Even though I was just following his advice."

Phichit waits. Sure enough, Yuuri – after fidgeting for a few moments – continues, "He told me almost as soon as we met that I flub my jumps when there's something on my mind, and he wanted me to try just – blocking everything out. Not thinking about anything at all." He pauses. "It worked while I was on the ice. But when I got back to the kiss and cry, everything hit me at once. I barely made it out of there before pulling another Skate America." His lips twitch in an abortive attempt at a smile.

Phichit's gut clenches with guilt, and he chokes back petals. "Oh, Yuuri, you poor thing."

Yuuri gives a humourless laugh. "Nothing compared to what you're going through. I'll live –" He breathes in sharply and launches into an almost unintelligible string of apologies.

"Yuuri. It's okay. Really."

"But – God, Phichit, that was so tactless, I'm sorry –"

"It was  _fine._  Honestly, I'd rather you joke about it than pretend it isn't happening."

"Like you do?" There's a tremor in Yuuri's voice, but his eyes are suddenly steel.

"Yuuri –" Phichit says, pleading.

"I'll see you in a few months, Phichit," Yuuri says, his voice tight. Then he hangs up.

…

Ketty leaves once the Nationals that matter are over. "Wish I could stay," she says, giving Phichit a long hug as her taxi pulls up. Her face brightens. "Your mum's already invited me to your birthday, though. I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

He hugs her tightly before letting go. "See you soon." He stands and waves until the taxi is out of sight; only then does he allow himself to sit down on the wall at the edge of the garden, dizzy with the effort of staying upright.

April is a long way off.

He marks the rest of the season on the Broadway calendar above his desk. Worlds, the Four Continents for Yuuri and Guang-Hong, Europeans for Victor and Other Yuri – but not Chris. And after the competitions, Songkran, his birthday, and the wedding, set for the second week of June. He doesn't bother checking the dates of the next season, let alone marking them on the calendar.

For three days after Ketty leaves, he doesn't bother doing anything at all, only getting out of bed to change Theodosia's food and water.

On the fourth day, Somchai barges in to his room. "Get up,  _nóng_."

He closes his eyes. "Don't feel like it."

"Tough." Somchai yanks the pillow out from underneath his head. "I'm sick of you moping about," he says, tossing the pillow on the floor. "What was the point of coming home if all you're going to do is stay in bed?"

"Okay, mister doctor expert, what should I be doing?"

"Anything except this! Go and help Pôr in the shop –"

"Where all the flowers are? Great idea."

"Go and see one of your friends, then?"

"Sure, let me just hop on a plane to Japan –"

"I wasn't talking about  _him_." Somchai glowers. "I mean people here."

The thought of an excruciating reunion with someone he hasn't seen in months if not years, all pity and thinly-veiled curiosity, makes him wince. "They're all in class," he lies. "Like you should be."

"I'm not going until you get up and promise you'll do something today. It's nice out – at least go and sit in the garden."

"Why?"

"What do you mean  _why_?" Somchai explodes. "Because right now you're wasting your time, that's why! I'm not telling you to run a marathon or some shit. Watch The fucking King and the Skater for the millionth time, I don't care. But there's no point in just lying around waiting to die!"

Phichit stares at him.

"What?" Somchai snaps. "Don't get all sensitive about it now. I thought you hated pity."

"I'm not  _waiting to die_ ," Phichit says, the words coming out weaker than he hoped. "I wanna make sure I actually make it to Songkran and my birthday and the wedding –"

"Fuck the wedding!" Somchai's face is murderous. "Don't put the rest of your life on hold for the  _kuay_  whose fault it is –"

"Get out. Now."

Somchai is taken aback, but doesn't leave straight away. "I'm only telling the truth –"

"Get. Out," he repeats through gritted teeth. "And don't you  _fucking dare_  talk about Yuuri like that again."

Somchai turns and leaves, all but slamming the door behind him.

Phichit leans back, inhaling sharply when the headboard presses against his spine. He reaches out for the pillow, on the floor where Somchai left it, but it's too far away. Not that there's much point in trying to get back to sleep now.

He glances up, and his eye falls on the calendar. Glinda smiles mockingly down at him from the page for January; even the end of the month seems impossibly distant. He can almost feel the blood congealing in his veins, thick and sluggish as sap, and he is filled with the sudden, unshakeable conviction that if he doesn't get up now, he'll never get up again.

Dragging himself out of bed is like uprooting a tree with his bare hands, but once he is on his feet, he is buoyed up by a wild lightness, a sense that he could do anything he wanted. There's no use conserving his strength for a day that will never come; he might as well live a little.

With more energy than he has felt in months, he throws on a tracksuit, grabs his kitbag and hurries downstairs.

He doesn't remember the rink being this far away, or being this out of breath after the walk from the bus stop. But what he does remember is the way his heart beats a little faster as it comes into view, the smile that spreads across his face of its own accord. He almost collides with the slow automatic doors in his haste to get onto the ice. Paying the startled trainee at the desk, he hurries through to the rink.

A blast of cold air welcomes him home as, stiff-fingered, he laces up his skates and steps out onto the ice. It is comfortingly solid beneath him, and his blades glide over it smoothly as a dream. He strokes around the rink a few times with all the ease of flying, then – almost without thinking – transitions into the routine from his short programme. The rink is quiet today, leaving him enough space to jump and spin.

But when he comes to the triple axel, he realises he is too tired to land it properly. He downgrades it to a double and carries on smoothly, but the failure nags at him, souring the sweetness of being back on the ice.

He returns to the rink the next day, and the day after that. And each time, he finds another element just out of reach; first the quad toe, then the rest of the triples, then the spins. At first, he hopes this is just a temporary setback, that he'll build up strength again and get back to practising properly.

The day he fails to land a simple single salchow, he realises things will never go back to normal.

But as January bleeds into February and the days heat up, he still keeps coming to the rink, even on days he can barely manage the journey. Skating mindless laps beats sitting at home, dozing off in the middle of some film he's seen a dozen times before. It's no fun without Yuuri rolling his eyes as Phichit rattles off every line of dialogue, or joining in – reluctantly at first, then enthusiastically – with the musical numbers.

Skating exhausts him, but it keeps the ache in his chest away, at least for a while.

…

Today, in the blazing March heat, the rink is fairly busy. Crowds of teenagers, schoolchildren, families mill around, chatting and laughing and falling over.

On the opposite side of the ice from where he is sitting, getting his breath back after an over-ambitious session, Phichit catches sight of a small figure bundled up in a puffy red coat and mittens, clinging to the railing. The child's parents are busy with an even smaller sibling and don't seem to notice the child in the red coat is frozen in place, on the verge of tears.

Still short of breath, he slips off his skate guards and glides over to where the figure in red is standing. "Hey. You… okay?"

The child looks up at him with big, solemn eyes, and slowly shakes their head.

"What's wrong?"

The small child bites their lip and whispers, "Scared."

Phichit nods thoughtfully. "It looks scary, doesn't it?" He crouches down to the child's level. "But shall I tell you a secret?"

The solemn eyes gaze back at him, caught between fear and curiosity.

"Once you've learnt how to fall, it's not so scary. Watch me." Crouching down further, he tips to the side and lands on the ice with a soft thump. "See? Didn't hurt at all." He picks himself up, brushing the ice off his gloves. "Wanna give it a try?"

The child takes one hand off the railing and bends their knees, but when their skates start to slide under them they grab for the railing again, tears brimming over.

"It's okay! It's scary to start with. But it's fun, too." He grins at the doubtful look the child gives him through their tears. "What's your name?"

"Phueng," the child sniffs.

Phichit pulls out a pack of tissues with cartoon hamsters on them, a gift from Sara Crispino. "Here you go, Phueng." He fishes a tissue out of the packet. "I'm Phichit, by the way."

Phueng blows their nose loudly and wipes their eyes, then looks up at Phichit with a shy smile.

"Better?"

Phueng nods. "Hamsters are my favourite," they mumble, stuffing the balled-up tissue in their pocket.

"Hey, mine too!" Phichit grins. He pulls out his phone, with its wallpaper of Theodosia curled up asleep. "This is my hamster Theodosia. Isn't she cute?"

"Thee… Theodosia?" Phueng screws up their small face in concentration as they trip over the unfamiliar name.

"That's right! Tell you what, Phueng." He holds out the tissues. "I'll give you these if you can learn to fall. How does that sound?"

Phueng looks longingly at the hamster tissues and then up at Phichit, biting their lip.

"It's okay. Really. Here, lemme show you one more time." Phichit demonstrates again, and then another when Phueng is unconvinced. "Think you can try?"

Phueng's tiny hands still grip the barrier tightly. Their bottom lip wobbles.

"Okay, how about I hold your hands to begin with? That way you can't fall until you want to."

Phueng nods vigorously, dark fringe bouncing up and down.

Straightening up, Phichit uncurls Phueng's hands from the railing. Phueng's whole body is tense and they're trembling like Theodosia the first time he held her, but their small face is set in determination.

"That's it. I've got you. You won't fall," Phichit smiles, easing away from the boards, pulling Phueng gently with him.

Phueng's bottom lip wobbles again, but their face lights up when they realise Phichit won't let them fall. Unprompted, they crouch down, almost sitting on the ice.

"Ready?"

Phueng nods.

Keeping his hands close so Phueng can grab on if they need, Phichit lets go of one hand and then the other.

Phueng rolls to one side and plops down onto the ice, and looks up at Phichit with a proud, gap-toothed grin. "I did it!"

"Yeah, you did great! Wanna try again?"

Phichit helps Phueng up and watches them roll, giggling, onto the ice over and over, until they can pick themselves up without help. He's about to suggest Phueng try marching on the spot when a voice from behind him pipes up, "Khun Phichi!"

He turns. Phueng's younger sibling is pointing at him insistently from her father's arms.

"Hush,  _l ,"_  her mother says, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Khun Phichit – you are Khun Phichit, aren't you?"

Smiling, he nods. "It's okay."

"Daw's your biggest fan. Hasn't stopped talking about you since she saw you on TV, and she cried until we found the video so she could watch again."

Daw waves her arms, almost wriggling out of her father's grip. "Do dance, Khun Phichi!"

His stomach sinks. How can he explain to a toddler that, even on an empty rink, he wouldn't be able to skate that routine anymore?

"He can't. He's teaching me," Phueng says crossly, putting their arm around Phichit's waist.

Seeing the dangerous tremor in Daw's lower lip, Phichit says hastily, "But I can take a picture with you if you like!" He looks to her parents to check it's okay.

"Only if you take one with us, too!" Phueng's mother grins, eyes twinkling.

"And me!" Phueng holds tighter to Phichit.

Phichit ruffles Phueng's hair. "Of course. And I believe I promised you these," he says, taking out the tissues again and handing them to Phueng, whose face lights up with glee.

Daw's father passes her over to Phichit for a photo and she throws her chubby arms around Phichit's neck, squealing happily. Phichit sits her in the crook of his elbow and takes Phueng's hand.

" _Pepsi_!" the children's father grins, readying his camera.

Phichit tries to hand Daw back to her parents after the photo, but Daw clings stubbornly to his neck. "More photo!" It takes several dozen shots before she can finally be persuaded to let go of 'Khun Phichi'.

"My turn!" her mother announces gleefully, slinging an arm over Phichit's shoulder and leaning in.

Phichit tries to suppress the hiss of pain that escapes him as her weight presses into his shoulder, but he sees the shadow that crosses her face before she withdraws her arm and makes a peace sign instead.

He turns to her after the photo and asks in an undertone, "Does Daw know?"

She shakes her head. "I haven't talked to either of them about it yet." She smiles sadly. "But I'm glad they got to meet you."

"I'm glad, too." Phichit glances at Phueng, standing stiff but proud on their skates, fear gone from their face.

_Looks like Thailand's future is in good hands._

…

Not just Thailand's future. Russia has Victor and Other Yuri, who take silver and bronze at Worlds; Japan has Katsuki Yuuri, who beats both of them to the top of the podium and clutches his gold medal as if he can't believe it's real.

…

The day after Worlds, Phichit returns from the rink with exhaustion seeping into his bones and heads straight for his bedroom. But he doesn't quite make it. The stairs seem to have become steeper since the last time he climbed them, and he sits down a few steps up to pause for breath, leaning his head against the bannisters.

That's where Somchai finds him hours later, when he comes home from class. "Why the hell are you sleeping on the stairs,  _nóng?_ " The roughness in his voice is the roughness of fear half-masked by irritation, and it startles Phichit awake.

Phichit has never seen Somchai so afraid before. He tries to stand, but his legs disobey him. He slithers down the few steps to the floor, landing in a winded heap at Somchai's feet.

"Idiot," Somchai chokes, but the word has no venom to it. "I thought – I thought you –" He stops, and clears his throat. "Here," he says gruffly, scooping Phichit up in his arms as if Phichit weighs no more than a cat. "You okay?"

Phichit shakes his head. "'S not… supposed… to be like this," he mumbles, still blinking away the last fragments of the dream Somchai interrupted. Skating. Yuuri. Wings on his feet instead of blades. "'m not supposed to fall. 'm supposed to  _fly_."

"Humans were never supposed to fly," Somchai says crossly. "And you shouldn't walk for a bit, either. You tired yourself out again, didn't you? Idiot." Phichit can feel his brother's hands shaking as he carries Phichit through to the living room and lays him on the sofa.

Phichit sinks gratefully into the sofa cushions. They're softer than the bannisters, and much more comfortable. He thinks he might stay here forever.

Somchai looks at him with terror in his eyes. "Should I call Pôr and Mâe?"

The unspoken question behind his words wraps a coil of grief around Phichit's heart. He shakes his head. He'll know, when it's time. "'s okay. Just need… sleep."

"Okay. Okay." It's impossible to tell which of them Somchai is trying to reassure; he sounds a lot like Yuuri, in that moment, and Phichit turns to cough pink camellia petals into the sofa cushion, hoping Somchai won't see. He doesn't want to lose this rare softness.

All Somchai says is, "You get some sleep. I'll stay with you."

Phichit means to thank him, but sleep steals up on him too quickly.

…

"Quit racketing around, I'm trying to study here," Somchai snarls, looking up from his textbook as Phichit rushes past with another binbag, humming  _A Spoonful of Sugar_. "Since when were you so into cleaning, anyway?"

"Since Yuuri and Victor changed their flight so they're arriving in  _six hours_  and the house is still a mess. Yuuri's never been here before, and I wanna make a good impression."

Scowling, Somchai slams shut  _Pulmonary Diseases_. "If that –" Under Phichit's glare, he swallows the insult. "If  _he's_  gonna be around, I'm outta here. I need to revise, anyway, and I can't concentrate with you under my feet." He scoops up  _Pulmonary Diseases_  and a few other textbooks and dumps them in his bag. "Tell Mâe and Pôr I'm at the library." Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he stomps out.

Phichit doesn't stop him. The last thing he wants is for Somchai to be cruel to Yuuri; maybe it's best if Somchai stays away while Yuuri is here. Still, there's a heaviness in his chest as he gets back to cleaning. He doesn't feel like humming any more.

He dumps the binbag outside and glances over the room, trying to be proud of his handiwork but finding only tiredness. He's emptied the bins and done the dishes, and the shelves and cupboards are tidy, but the table still needs cleaning. Even that small task feels beyond him; he is about to give up and collapse into a chair when his phone buzzes.

He looks down at the screen and smiles.  _Finally finished boarding! I'm crossing the ocean and I just can't wait,_  Yuuri has written.  _See you in a bit!_  It's accompanied by a fuzzy selfie which encompasses not only Yuuri but also the plane window and a third of Victor's face.

Shaking his head fondly, Phichit types  _cant wait to see u again_ and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

As he gathers up the textbooks Somchai left behind, he looks down at the book open on the top of the pile and feels his grin slip.  _Hanahaki: Life-extending treatments and palliative care_. A slim volume, in English, freshly published. He slips it to the bottom of the pile and stuffs the textbooks on the nearest bookshelf, hoping that Victor, at least, won't notice they're shelved amongst his parents' cookery books. He knows from years of rooming with Yuuri – wading through clothes they both left on the floor, picking up Yuuri's  _Introduction to Literary Criticism_  instead of his copy of  _Acting in Musical Theatre_ , on one occasion even turning in an essay of Yuuri's by accident when he grabbed the wrong piece of paper off the table – that Yuuri is unlikely to either notice or care.

He reads Yuuri's text again, and the smile comes back to his face. It won't be long now.

…

When Phichit is in the middle of hoovering the stairs, his mother waves up at him to get his attention. He shuts off the vacuum cleaner and calls down, "What is it?"

The doorbell peals again, and she tips her head towards the door with a knowing smile.

Phichit bounds down the stairs, almost tripping over the hoover cord in his enthusiasm. He opens the door and launches himself at Yuuri with a cry.

"Oh my God, Yuuri, it's so good to see you again, I can't believe you're finally here, Yuuri,  _Yuuri_ …"

Wordlessly, Yuuri hugs him close. Fresh from his win at Worlds, he's all angles and edges, honed like a blade, and Phichit misses the soft ampleness of the summer Yuuri who is more often in his thoughts. But this Yuuri is beautiful too.

"Yuuri," he says one more time, as if to reassure himself he isn't dreaming, that after four painful months of separation Yuuri really is here in front of him again.

"Phichit," Yuuri replies, grinning.

"How are you?"

"Peachy."

Glowing, Phichit turns to Victor. "Good to see you too. Come on in! Welcome to Bangkok!"

The morning of cleaning has tired him out, but seeing Yuuri again sweeps away that exhaustion. He insists on taking Yuuri's suitcase, and practically bounces as he takes them through the house, barely pausing for breath between introductions and explanations. "This is Mâe, she's been dying to meet you both, and you'll meet Pôr soon, he'll be closing up the shop now. Here's the kitchen – no, let's get you settled in your room first, it's just up these stairs, here we are, I promise I'll let you rest later, but I wanna show you around. This is my room – I'm not staying in it right now, stairs are kinda a pain, but this is where I'd usually be." He waves at the hamster cage. "Say hi, Theo! I'm sure she remembers you –" He hurries out into the corridor. "And that's Somchai's room –"

"Phichit's older brother," Yuuri informs Victor.

"Yeah, he's… out at the moment, you'll probably see him at dinner. Anyway, that's my parents' room, and here's the bathroom. Wanna see the rest of the house now, or should I let you unpack?"

He has to grip the bannister as he speaks. The burst of energy has left him as abruptly as it came, and his head is swimming. He sees the look that passes between Yuuri and Victor.

"It was a long flight," Yuuri says gently. "Would you mind if we took a minute or two to get our bearings?"

"Not at all, you must be exhausted." His own breathing is laboured, despite his best efforts to keep it regular. "I'm just gonna feed Theo. Come and get me when you're ready for the rest of the Grand Tour."

"We will. Thanks, Phichit," Victor says. He and Yuuri return to the guest room.

Phichit hurries back to his own room and feeds Theodosia while he still has the energy – he should really move her downstairs while he's staying in the living room, but that would feel too permanent, somehow. He flops down on his bed, exhausted.  _It's only 4. I shouldn't be this tired_. But he pushes the thought away, reaching instead for the thought of Yuuri.

He smiles, and glances up at the calendar, from which the Schuyler Sisters look down at him with pride. Five days until Songkran, not even three weeks until his birthday.

_It's gonna be a great month._

…

Three nights before Songkran, thirst wakes him in the darkness. The flowers are becoming ever greedier, draining all the water from his body and leaving his throat so parched it is painful. He glances at his phone. 3AM. With a sigh, he rolls off the sofa and pads through to the kitchen.

The light is on. He pushes the door open slowly.

His heart sinks when he sees Yuuri sitting at the kitchen table, poring over Somchai's hanahaki textbook.

Yuuri looks up as Phichit comes in. His face is grey with exhaustion, but there's a fierce light in his soft brown eyes that makes Phichit's chest constrict like someone is crushing his heart in their fist.

Phichit glances at the textbook.

' _End stage: The patient's bones will lignify (see Chapter 2) and become susceptible to fractures. Once this stage is reached, death will usually occur in no more than –'_

He tears his gaze away from the book and fixes it on Yuuri instead. "Yuuri, will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

The hand clutching Phichit's heart gives another sharp squeeze. "Stop trying to make this right." He gently pulls the textbook away. "I love you for trying. But there isn't gonna be a miracle."

"But –"

"Yuuri, listen." Pushing the textbook aside, he takes Yuuri's hands in his, past caring about the numbness creeping through his fingers. "Of course I wish there was a way out of this. Of course I do. But there isn't, there just isn't, and I – I need you to see that. Please."

Yuuri's mouth sets in a hard line; he wrests his hands from Phichit's stiff grasp and reaches for the textbook, hugging it to his chest like a talisman. "I'm sorry, Phichit. I'm not giving up on you." He stands up and leaves, closing the door behind him with a decisive click.

Suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion, Phichit collapses into Yuuri's empty seat. He's so thirsty it hurts to breathe, but the exhaustion is bone-deep, and he can't bring himself to stand, or do anything except rest his head on his arms and close his eyes.

He wakes with a start on the sofa. It is still dark, but he can make out the figure of his mother sitting beside him.

"It's okay, baby, I'm here," she says softly, squeezing his hand. "Go back to sleep."

_But what if I don't wake up again?_  Fear batters him like storm waves, and he clutches his mother's hand to anchor him.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

That's enough to tame the fear. Not to still it entirely, but enough to calm it for a while, so he can push it to the back of his mind and drift off again.

…

When the midday heat drags him back into consciousness, she is still sitting next to him, asleep.

She wakes up as soon as he moves. "Morning, baby. How are you feeling?"

He shakes his head. His throat is on fire.

She hands him a glass of water, feeling his forehead as he drains it greedily. "Take it easy -your Swiss friend arrives today, don't forget. I want you to be able to enjoy his company."

He grins to cover his uneasiness at the thought of seeing Chris. "Stop fussing, Mâe."

She tousles his hair before slipping out of the room.

He wants to call out, tell her not to leave. He is so tired; it would be much easier to stay here than to get up and face Yuuri. Fear of another fight drains what little energy he has. But his mother has things to do, and he doesn't have time to lie around feeling sorry for himself.

Without bothering to dress, he drags himself into the kitchen, hating the ache in his bones, the way every step jars.

Victor and Yuuri are leaning against the counter. Yuuri's head is nestled against Victor's heart; he's obviously been crying. Phichit lingers in the doorway, reluctant to intrude, but Yuuri looks up and sees him.

Face set in a terrible, blank mask, Yuuri pushes Victor away and hurries over to the door, shouldering past Phichit and disappearing into the corridor and out into the garden without a word.

Victor won't meet Phichit's eyes. "Good, er, morning."

Phichit knows full well that morning has been and gone, but he returns the greeting, doing his best to smile. "I was hoping to talk to Yuuri, but…"

"He's pretty upset," Victor says redundantly, into the silence Phichit has left. "I should be with him." He pushes himself off the counter and starts towards the door.

If he can't get through to Yuuri, perhaps it is worth trying to reach Victor instead. He stops Victor before he can step out into the garden, and clears his throat painfully, trying to find the right words. "I know he's having trouble accepting… this. Will you look after him, y'know, after…"

Victor watches impassively as he runs up against the unsayable.

He tries a different tack. "You'll help him pick out his outfit, won't you? For my… y'know." He can't bring himself to say the word  _funeral_. "I don't trust that boy's taste in ties."

Victor fixes him with a stare so intense it chills him. "I'll help him choose his outfit for the wedding, yes. So you'd better make sure you match, as the best man." He pulls away and hurries outside before Phichit can stop him.

_I never expected Victor to struggle like this. Yuuri, sure, maybe Guang-Hong, but I hardly_ know _Victor._  He has no idea how to comfort Yuuri, let alone his fiancé.

He'll try again later, but for now, he needs to spend time with someone who can comfort him without breaking themselves. He heads up to his room and takes Theodosia out of her cage.

…

Shouting erupts downstairs as he is loading Theodosia into her hamster ball. Somchai and Yuuri. His heart sinks.

"Okay, Theo, you be good," he whispers, quickly shutting the lid on the hamster ball and lowering it to the carpet. "I'd better go and sort those two out."

They're in the kitchen, the textbook on the table between them. "I'm telling you, no way. Too late," Somchai says, the English words rough and tearing.

"But –"

"Are you a doctor?" Somchai snaps.

_Technically you're not a doctor either._ Somchai has two years of training to go.  _But this is the closest you'll be to one while I'm still around._

Yuuri isn't cowed. "He hasn't started coughing up forget-me-nots yet –"

"Yuuri, I will literally haunt you if you forget me. You too,  _pêe._ "

They both look up in shock as Phichit steps into the kitchen. Yuuri bolts for the door, but Phichit closes it smartly behind him and stands in front of it, arms crossed.

"Sit down, both of you. No-one is leaving until we've got a few things straight."

Dazed, they comply.

He turns to Somchai. "I won't have you blaming Yuuri for this. God knows he's blaming himself enough already."

Both Somchai and Yuuri start to protest, but Phichit holds up a hand to stop them.

"I love you both, and I can't bear to see you fighting. There doesn't need to be any more unhappiness in this house."

"If this  _kuay_  left –" Somchai snarls, glaring at Yuuri, but Phichit cuts him off.

"If Yuuri leaves before Songkran, I'll never forgive you."

Somchai falls quiet, eyes wide.

He turns to Yuuri, and finds himself at a loss for what to say. How can he order Yuuri to stop doing something that brings him a modicum of comfort in the midst of this awfulness? But can't bear the thought of Yuuri refusing to come to terms with it. He won't be around to comfort Yuuri when the inevitable happens.

Yuuri looks back at him, sullen and silent, and it hurts so much to see him like this that Phichit almost gives in. He won't be around to comfort Yuuri, true, but he also won't be there to see Yuuri break.  _So what does it matter, really?_ But he remembers how Yuuri fell apart when he first found out, how both he and Victor were all but helpless in the face of Yuuri's grief. He knows how much heavier that grief will be when Yuuri is mourning not the thought of a loss but the reality, and he fears that Victor's love alone will not be enough to help him shoulder it, not if it comes crashing down when he is still stubbornly refusing to accept the truth.

"Please, Yuuri. I don't wanna fight –"

"That's exactly your problem. You've just –  _given up_. The flowers must be affecting your mind as well as your body, because the Phichit I know would keep trying, no matter what." His voice rings with absolute conviction. "And if you're not going to fight, then I have to." Shining in his eyes is the determination that Phichit usually loves – but to have it turned against him in such a way is a terrible thing.

"You think I got to the Grand Prix Final by  _giving up_? There's a difference between having faith and ignoring the facts, Yuuri."

"I'm not –"

"Yes, you are," Phichit and Somchai say in unison.

Yuuri looks from one to the other in outraged betrayal before his glare settles on Phichit. "If you didn't want me here, you only had to say." His tone is icily polite, every word painful as a new bud forcing its way through skin. "Your parents will be busy with Chris arriving today, I'm sure. You don't need Victor and me adding to that."

The pain in his chest shrouds everything in a haze. Letting that show would be so easy; Yuuri would thaw in an instant if he knew how badly Phichit was hurting. But that wouldn't be fair.

"Of course I need you, Yuuri," he says, his voice as level as he can make it. "I know you want to help. I'm so, so grateful for that. But it's going to hurt you in the long run if –"

"It's going to hurt no matter what I do!" Yuuri bursts out. He glances at Somchai, wavering, then continues wildly, honestly, as if to Phichit alone, "I'm afraid losing you might kill me."

"How dare you,  _ai hee-ah_  –"

As Somchai lunges at Yuuri, Phichit steps between them. There is a crack like a dry twig snapping as his arm bends backwards under the weight of Somchai's body.

Phichit screams.

Somchai's face blanches in horror and he bolts for the door, slamming it behind him.

Overcome by nausea and pain, Phichit stumbles over to the sink and throws up. There isn't much to throw up – he hasn't felt like eating for days now, and it's only his mother's coaxing that's convinced him to eat anything at all – but he retches until nothing is left but bile, burning his throat. "It hurts," he sobs. "It  _hurts_."

"I know, I know." Someone is cradling him against their chest, taking care not to touch his left arm. Someone's hand wipes the flecks of vomit off his lips and chin. Someone lifts a glass of water to his lips.

"Mâe?"

"I'm here, baby." But her voice comes from over by the door. As he looks down, he sees the hands around his waist are too pale to be his mother's.

"I've got you. You're safe," Yuuri says. He squeezes Phichit gently, and Phichit wishes he would never let go. But Yuuri is already leading him over to the doorway, where his parents are standing. Victor and Somchai are behind them; Somchai is gripping their mother by the shoulder, his face twisted in fear.

"I'm so sorry,  _nóng_. I never meant to hurt you," he says in Thai. He moves to embrace Phichit, but shrinks back and turns to Yuuri instead. There's no anger in his eyes any more, only shame, as he switches to English and addresses Yuuri. "I'm sorry to you too, Khun Yuuri."

To Phichit's surprise, Yuuri only inclines his head politely, accepting Somchai's apology. There is no protest, no attempt to draw the blame to himself.

Phichit's father clears his throat. "We should get you to hospital,  _lôok_."

"But Chris is arriving in a few hours! You don't have time!"

His mother puts her hand on his shoulder. "Don't you think it might be better to ask him… We'll pay for his hotel, of course, but…"

"We invited him here! You can't turn round suddenly and tell him he's not welcome."

"Phichit, love –"

Phichit answers in English. "You have to let Chris stay. I want to see him, Mâe _._  And he needs to be here for Victor."

Victor inhales sharply, and Phichit shoots him a smile which Victor almost manages to return.

"I could go with you, Phichit," Yuuri offers quietly. "The hospital isn't far."

"Wait, how much of that did you understand?"

"I caught  _hospital_ , and – something about Chris and a hotel? I didn't stop studying Thai when I left Detroit, you know." There's pride beneath the concern in Yuuri's tone, and pride flares in Phichit's chest as well.

_Yuuri, you're amazing. More amazing than anyone gives you credit for._  "And how do you know where the hospital is?"

Yuuri gives Phichit a sheepish look. "I looked it up before I got here. Just in case."

"Are you sure you will be okay?" Phichit's mother asks them, her English a little stiff but her tone gentle.

Phichit lets Yuuri do the nodding for him.

…

For Phichit, it might as well be fifty miles to the hospital. Every step is an effort he barely has the energy for.

"Want me to carry you?"

Phichit shakes his head. "Couldn't hold on with only one hand." That's only half the reason. An anonymous Barcelona hospital corridor is one thing; his home city, where he could run into someone he knows at any moment, is quite another.

Yuuri doesn't question it. But he stops whenever Phichit does, never saying anything, and doesn't start walking again until Phichit is ready, even though he could have walked there and back in half the time it's taking them.

When they arrive, Yuuri is ready to march up to the reception desk, armed with his rudimentary Thai, but Phichit stops him. "It's okay, Yuuri, let me handle it."

Before he can say anything, the young receptionist gasps. "Oh my gosh, you're Phichit Chulanont, aren't you? It's an honour to meet you, sir." They dip into a wai, and Phichit summons a smile, steeling himself for a starry-eyed encounter he has no energy for.

But when they look up again, the pity in their eyes turns Phichit's stomach. Whatever they have to say, he doesn't want to hear it. He tries not to let his smile slip as he rushes to explain the situation.

The receptionist's look of mingled admiration and pity is replaced by a friendly, professional smile, and minutes later, Phichit and Yuuri are sitting in a packed waiting room. There are stares, and none-too-subtle photos, but no-one tries to speak to Phichit. It isn't until he looks at Yuuri and sees the defiant glare he aims at anyone glancing in Phichit's direction that he understands why.

He squeezes Yuuri's hand through his glove. His breath catches in his throat when Yuuri squeezes back and asks, "How are you feeling?"

He shakes his head.

…

The doctor takes one look at the pair of them – Yuuri with his splint, Phichit holding his left arm awkwardly against his body – and chuckles. "Been in a fight?"

"If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy," Phichit chirps, relieved that here, at least, he is just another patient. He doesn't have to smile for the cameras, to act the part of Thailand's darling.

Beside him, Yuuri relaxes, his face softening. Whether or not he understood the exchange, he takes his cues from Phichit's smile.

"Right, then, let's have a look at you." The doctor leads them to the radiography room.

Phichit sits down and gingerly places his left arm on the table, his other hand still gripping Yuuri's.

The doctor disappears behind a screen, but is back a minute later, frowning.

"For some reason, the bones in your lower arm aren't showing up at all." He jerks his head at the machine. "I guess this old thing must be defective."

Cold dread creeps through Phichit's body. "I don't know if this has anything to do with it, but I have hanahaki," he says quietly.

The doctor's grim expression is enough to alarm Yuuri, whose fingers tighten around Phichit's gloved hand. "What's wrong?" he asks Phichit in English.

"Apparently I have invisible bones now." He tries to laugh, but the sound that emerges is dry and mirthless.

Yuuri blanches. "Tell me there's something wrong with the machine," he says desperately, looking away. "Your bones wouldn't show on an X-ray if… No. Lignification of the bones is an end-stage symptom. It can't be that."

"Yuuri –"

"It doesn't show up until after you start exhibiting skin changes. You're fine, Phichit. You're going to be okay."

Phichit can't bear to look Yuuri in the eyes as he silently removes his glove.

_I should have told Victor to come with us_. The immediate squall of Yuuri's grief is beyond Phichit's powers to calm; all he can do is pat Yuuri awkwardly on the back with a hand that can barely feel as Yuuri crumbles into sobs.

He realises the doctor has slipped out, leaving him alone with Yuuri. For Yuuri's sake, he is glad of the privacy, but the pressure of all the air in the empty room is crushing him. What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say?

"You should… have told me," Yuuri chokes out between sobs. "We agreed. No more secrets. You should have told me I was hurting you –"

"It doesn't hurt, Yuuri. If anything, it makes it less painful –"

"You know what I mean! I'm making you worse. You shouldn't be around me."

"That's the surest way I can think of to reduce whatever time I have left." He pauses. "I guess we have a better idea of how long that is, now."

Yuuri says nothing.

"I'd rather know," Phichit says gently, although suddenly he's not sure he does. There's no ignoring a fixed date of execution.

"Nothing is definite."

"But?"

"According to the book, a month at the outside."

_A month._  That gives him Songkran. His birthday. Yuuri and Victor's wedding.

Phichit takes a long breath in, and hugs Yuuri as tightly as his injured arm will allow. "Let's make it a good month, then."

…

The cast doesn't take as long or hurt as much as Phichit is expecting. When the doctor tells him to keep it on for 'six to eight weeks', his composure wobbles, but he manages to hold himself together.

"I'm scared," he whispers as soon as he is outside in the corridor with Yuuri. Any louder and his voice will crack.

"I know." Yuuri, his eyes red but his voice level, envelops him in a very careful hug. "It's okay to be scared."

"I don't wanna die, Yuuri, I don't, please –" He doesn't know what he's pleading for. He breaks off before the sob building in his chest can burst through.

"I know, Phichit, I know." Yuuri holds him close, strokes his hair gently.

"You'll stay, won't you?"

"Of course. I didn't mean what I said before. I won't leave until you tell me to."

Phichit hugs him tighter. He has to hold on to something, or he'll fall apart. "When they burn me," he begins, and then has to stop. His voice is catching on every word. But Yuuri is steady, constant. "When they burn me… No flowers. Please. I know it's traditional at a… ceremony, but I just – I can't bear the thought of – of –"

"It's okay, Phichit. I think we've all had more than enough of flowers."

"Thanks, Yuuri."

Yuuri kisses him lightly, lips brushing against Phichit's fringe. "There's something I want you to do when the time comes."

"What?"

"Will you say hi to Vicchan for me?"

The sound that emerges from his throat is half a laugh, half a sob. "Of course."

…

He sleeps through Chris's arrival, only realising he's done so when he gets up that evening for a drink of water and finds Chris deep in conversation with Victor at the kitchen table.

"Do you think maybe – if I could just get through to him – do you think there's a chance –" Chris breaks off into sudden, uneasy silence as Phichit comes in.

"Chris!" He stumbles over to hug him. "Sorry I didn't say hi when you got here –"

"Please don't worry about it, Phichit. I'm sorry for not coming to see you sooner. I gather you've had quite the day – you must be exhausted."

Chris is the one who looks exhausted. His face is drawn and pale, and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Phichit's stomach sinks as he registers the similar grimness of Victor's expression.

"What's wrong?"

Chris quickly turns his smile into a yawn, and stretches in his cat-like way, twisting his body so he's facing away from Phichit. When he turns back, his face is bright. "Long-haul flights are a beast. But anything for you, Phichit." He grins.

"Er, thanks." Phichit turns to Victor. "Is Yuuri okay? Well, not okay, but, y'know."

"He told me about the X-ray." Victor's voice is heavy, and he looks down at the table as if he doesn't have the energy to meet Phichit's eyes. "I'm sorry."

Phichit's chest constricts. "Where is he?"

"The garden."

"Should I –"

"No, it's okay, Phichit, I'll go. You two haven't had time to catch up yet." Victor's lips twitch upwards slightly, then his face falls again. He hurries out.

Fetching himself a glass of water, Phichit sits down opposite Chris. "Sorry, this was supposed to be a celebration."

"No need to apologise," Chris smiles. "It's lovely to see you again."

"You too." Phichit takes a long drink of water to give himself time to think of what to say. 'I'm sorry I threw you off your game by telling you I was dying'?He still can't fathom why it is Chris who choked, and not Yuuri or Guang-Hong.

"How's, er, how's Masumi?" he says when the silence becomes too loud to bear.

"We broke up," Chris answers shortly.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Phichit can feel his face heating up. He almost wishes he'd asked about Chris's season instead.

Chris sighs. "Don't be. I'm the one who broke it off, and it was a while ago, anyway."

"Oh. Um." Staring down at the table, he takes another sip of water, and another.

"This isn't how I wanted this to go," Chris murmurs. "I'm sorry, Phichit."

"How you wanted what to go?"

Chris starts. "Did I say that out loud? Christ, I really am losing it." He gives a shaky laugh.

Phichit reaches across and puts a hand on his arm. "What's going on?"

"A lot," Chris sighs. "A lot that you of all people don't need to worry about."

"Chris, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm the most stable person around here right now. Yuuri's a mess, Victor's no better, and my family… Well. If you need someone to talk to… I mean, you don't know me as well as you know Victor, but…"

"I wish we had time to get to know one another better." He swallows, and there's a strange light burning in his eyes as he clasps Phichit's hand in both of his "Maybe we do. There might still be a way to stop this."

_Chris, please, not you too._  Fighting with Yuuri was bad enough; he doesn't have the strength to go through it all again. "I would've had to have the operation months ago. Probably years."

Chris shakes his head, frustrated. "There's another way. You wouldn't have to lose anything – I wouldn't…  _we_ wouldn't have to lose you."

"Somchai's a doctor. If there was a way round this, he'd know."

There is technically a third way to survive hanahaki, but it's so rare for someone to fall out of love in time to save themselves that it's regarded in medical circles as something of an urban legend. Phichit knows there's no hope down that path, only delusion and disappointment. Besides, his love for Yuuri is what sustains him even as it destroys him.

" _I_ know," Chris says, insistent, pleading. "Isn't that enough?" His eyes are wild and desperate, almost feverish, with a terrible hope. "Can't I… why can't I be enough?"

_So_  that's  _what this is about?_  Phichit sighs, drawing his hand back from Chris's grasp. "I'm grateful you'd go so far for my sake, and you're a very convincing actor."  _Almost too convincing._  "But pretending you're in love with me won't make me stop loving Yuuri. I'm sorry."

The disappointment on Chris's face is terrible, crushing. "Phichit, I – I'm not –"

"Thank you, Chris. Really. But it won't work." He squeezes out a smile. "Besides, what if you ending up falling for me by accident?  _Then_  you'd be in trouble."

Chris's eyes darken and he opens his mouth to reply, but at that moment the door opens and Yuuri comes in, closely followed by Victor.

"Hey, you," Phichit says softly, reaching for Yuuri, but Yuuri shrinks away from him.

"Phichit, I can't. I'll hurt you."

Phichit zips his jacket all the way up over his chin, and stretches the sleeves so his hands are covered. "Nope," he says, his voice muffled by the fabric. "C'mere."

With a weak grin, Yuuri accepts the hug.

"Come on, let's leave them to it," Victor says.

Chris gets to his feet slowly, glancing over his shoulder at Phichit with an unreadable expression on his face before he slips out after Victor. And then it's just the two of them in the empty kitchen, the rhythm of Yuuri's heart against his chest like the slow blinking glow of a firefly.

"Phichit?" Yuuri says softly, as if the silence between them is something sacred.

"Mmm?"

Yuuri hesitates.

"Yuuri. It's okay. What is it?"

"Shall we skate?" Yuuri mumbles, drawing back from the hug and offering Phichit his hands.

It's nothing like dancing in Detroit; the kitchen table gets in the way, and it's awkward with Phichit's cast and Yuuri's splint, and they have to stop every few steps for Phichit to catch his breath. But none of that matters.

As the routine comes to an end, they bow to one another, grinning, and lean back against the kitchen counter. "Hey, I think you've finally got the steps straight," Phichit teases. "Next time you lead."

Yuuri smiles, but it's a preoccupied smile, and his gaze drifts out into the darkness of the garden. "What do you think Victor and Chris were talking about before? I saw them through the window, and Chris – he looked  _distraught_ , Phichit. I really hope he's okay, but he doesn't look it."

"It's me, I'm afraid. After Victor came to find you, he tried to convince me that – that he was in love with me. As if that would somehow be enough to make me stop loving you."

"Chris is a good man –"

"– and that doesn't change anything. It wouldn't change anything even if he really was in love with me."

"Look, I probably shouldn't say this, but are you sure he's only pretending?"

Fear teeters above Phichit like a rockfall, and he has to steady himself against the weight of it before it can come crashing down and break him. "Yes. I'm sure."

He hopes it's the last time he'll have to lie to Yuuri.

…

When Leo and Guang-Hong arrive, the day before Songkran, he doesn't have the strength to get up and greet them, but at least he is – briefly – awake. He dozes for most of the day as his friends come and go, catching up with each other, introducing themselves to his family through a stony-faced Somchai. He knows he has to save his energy.

…

The long days of Songkran pass in a haze of heat and laughter. Mornings are for merit-making at temples that have the others – even Yuuri – wide-eyed with wonder. Then, as noon approaches, they join the crowds for the huge street water fights that are Phichit's favourite part of the festival.

Yuuri's eyes light up as Phichit explains the tradition. "It's almost like old times. Except  _this_ ," he says, waving an arm to indicate the throngs of people lining the roads, buzzing with anticipation and festival feeling, "is a bit more impressive than chasing each other around the kitchen with water guns."

Phichit grins. "You're still gonna end up soaked."

…

Wanting to give the others some time alone after a long day together as a group, Phichit steps out into the warmth of the night. He catches sight of Chris at the end of the veranda, wine glass in hand, and calls out to him.

"Ah, Phichit. What can I do for you, my lovely?" Chris smiles, coming over and perching next to him on the steps. The awkwardness Phichit was expecting doesn't materialise; it is as if their conversation on the day of Chris's arrival never happened.

"I was wondering if you'd written your best man speech."

Chris doesn't say anything for a moment, just sips his wine. "I was going to ask you the same thing, actually," he says at last.

"Chris, we both know I might not make it."

"You were the one they chose." There's a hint of something that might be envy in Chris's tone, but it's too fleeting for Phichit to be sure, and his smile doesn't slip. "I thought perhaps I should read your speech – so you don't miss out, in a way."

"Trying to get out of writing your own?" Phichit's grin doesn't last. "I'm not sure… That would kinda feel like a eulogy, and this is Yuuri's wedding, after all. I don't wanna overshadow things."

Chris puts a hand on his arm. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, but let's be honest, there's going to be a Phichit-shaped shadow over all our lives for a long time to come. Perhaps forever."

Phichit winces at the starkness of Chris's words, and Chris starts to apologise, but he cuts him off. "No, it's okay, it's… I appreciate your honesty. Everyone else still sort of tiptoes around it – well, except Somchai. He's never tiptoed in his life." Another brief smile. "But we're very different people. It wouldn't be fair to make you read out something that was all me and not you."

A smile spreads over Chris's face – a real smile, playful and mischievous. "I have an idea."

"Uh-oh."

Chris chuckles. "Nothing untoward, I promise. I was thinking – why don't we collaborate? I bet you have some  _excellent_  anecdotes from Detroit that would be perfect for this."

Phichit allows himself to smile back. "The things I could tell you…"

"Oh?" Chris says, raising an eyebrow.

"Not so fast. You must have plenty of dirt on Victor, right?"

"Phichit, my lovely, you have  _no idea_  how many embarrassing stories I could tell about that man."

"Well, then, I believe we're in business. I divulge the dark secrets of Detroit, and you spill the beans about Victor's embarrassing past. Deal?"

He sticks out his hand, and Chris grasps it, grinning wickedly. "Deal."

An idea occurs to him. "Just in case I… can't make the wedding," he begins carefully.

"Yes?"

"I still think you should give the speech. But I know how we can make it so that I don't miss out."

"Do tell."

He pulls out his phone. "I hear delivering your best man speech via vlog is all the rage these days."

…

The last day of Songkran finds Phichit lying out on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The others have been coming and going all day, filling the house with laughter and conversation, and he is glowing from the easy camaraderie of it all. Everyone apart from Chris is fresh from Worlds, and there's been good-natured competition over scores matched, personal bests broken. Not being a part of that hurts far more than Phichit lets on, but that pain is counterbalanced by joy and pride in his friends' accomplishments.

That joy is still with him, but he is tired, too; although the others are inside, talking and drinking, Phichit is content to lie and watch the night deepen above him.

There's a movement at his side, and he turns his head to see Yuuri sitting on the grass next to him. "Hey, Phichit. How are you doing?"

"Peachy," he smiles.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but doesn't push him. "Mind if I join you?"

He shakes his head.

Yuuri lies next to him and curls into his side like a cat, laying his head on Phichit's ribs the way he used to in Detroit. The stars go blurry for a second. He'll pay for this in petals later, but for now it is so good to have Yuuri close.

"I'm glad you didn't retire, Yuuri," he says, resting his hand on Yuuri's back.

"I'm sorry you did."

"Yeah. Well. I wasn't planning on it," he says, but there's no bitterness left in him.  _It is what it is._  "Speaking of plans…"

Yuuri cranes his neck to look up at him.

"There was something else I wanted to do when I did retire. I don't know why I'm only telling you this now, but I have to tell someone before… Before I can't anymore."

Yuuri's smile is a gentle encouragement for him to continue.

"I had this dream of having an ice show, someday. Here in Thailand." He grins at Yuuri. "I wanted you to guest star, of course."

Yuuri's smile wobbles as he whispers, "I would have been honoured."

He has it all planned out in detail, has had for years – the costumes, the set, everything.  _I would have asked Ketty to write the opening theme, too._  But he doesn't need to describe all of that to Yuuri; it's enough that Yuuri knows about his dream.

"Phichit?" Yuuri says, after a minute or two of silence.

"Yeah?"

"Want to go skating tomorrow? I mean, if you're up to it, of course."

His heart leaps at the thought. Rationally, he knows that skating is a terrible idea, that it will take more out of him than he can afford to give. But he would drag his body through hell for Yuuri's sake. The two of them, together on the ice again at last – what better way to welcome in the new year?

"I'd love to," he grins. "Let's go sightseeing afterwards – I told you I'd show you around Bangkok someday."

Although the night is warm, a shiver runs through him without warning.

Yuuri raises his head and shoots him a look of concern. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Pain is a constant with the sickness this far gone, and even the gentle pressure of Yuuri's head against his chest is making it hard to breathe, but Yuuri doesn't need to know that. "You couldn't if you tried," he smiles, taking Yuuri's hand in his.

Yuuri squeezes his hand and lays his head against Phichit's heart again with a long sigh. "I love you, Phichit. I'm sorry it's not the right way, not the way you need."

He thinks back over all the years Yuuri has loved him. The nights they've spent curled up on the sofa together watching  _The King and the Skater_  for the hundredth time without a single complaint from Yuuri. The day Peggy died, and he cried in front of Yuuri properly for the first time, and Yuuri didn't laugh – didn't say  _it's just a hamster, why are you making such a fuss?_  – just held him wordlessly until he'd cried himself out and then ordered takeaway and told terrible jokes until Phichit managed to crack a smile. The endless washing-up sessions that turned into water fights, the impromptu dance-offs, the easy, casual affection of Yuuri's smile, his voice, his touch.

He misses Yuuri's touch, God, he misses it. And he knows the next time Yuuri touches him will be the last, can feel it in the way every minute that passes brings with it the weight of a century, but he would risk that just to feel Yuuri's skin against his again.

"It's exactly what I need, Yuuri."

Yuuri buries his face in Phichit's shoulder and says nothing for a long time. Then, hesitantly, he looks up again, raising himself up on one elbow.

"Phichit?"

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A wave of almost unbearable joy sweeps through him, but he doesn't let it overwhelm him, not yet. "On three conditions," he says carefully.

Yuuri looks a little surprised, but nods.

"One: I need to know that you're not asking out of pity."

Yuuri shakes his head. "Pity implies that I think you're weak, and God, knowing you've been fighting this,  _alone,_  for years… You're the strongest person I know."

He squeezes Yuuri's hand in thanks. "Two: would Victor be okay with this?"

Yuuri's soft laugh sends a ripple through Phichit's chest. "I… Okay, this is going to sound weird, but I… actually already discussed it with him. Oh God, that does sound weird, doesn't it?"

"Not really. I'd hate for you to do anything for me that would end up hurting Victor."

"What's the third condition?"

Yuuri's face is only inches above his own, and it's all Phichit can do not to close that gap, conditions be damned. Every cell in his body is straining towards Yuuri; the wave is poised, hovering, ready to crash over him and sweep him away. But he holds back. He wants this to be right.

He takes a deep breath. "Three: I need you to understand that this isn't a magic spell. It's not going to fix me."

Yuuri goes still, and Phichit plummets. The wave of joy rears back and drains away, and Phichit is falling. It isn't disappointment that drags him down, but fear. If Yuuri still hasn't accepted what's happening…  _I can't do this to him. I can't_. But he doesn't have a say in the matter.

"Phichit."

Yuuri's voice brings him back to himself. Yuuri is smiling gently, and Phichit knows Yuuri understands after all.

"I would still do anything I could to stop this. But that's not what this is about." His smile wobbles, and he looks to the side for a second to compose himself before turning back to Phichit. "Will that do?"

Phichit nods, smiling, and Yuuri leans down and kisses him.

It's soft and sweet, and the wave of joy rushes back through him, carrying him so far out to sea he thinks he might drown. Yuuri's touch is a precious thing; he was afraid he would have to be careful not to be greedy with it, not to ask for more than is offered, but even the warm pressure of Yuuri's lips against his own is almost too much to bear. His heart breaks a little from happiness at the longed-for contact, and as the stars blur together again, he realises he is crying.

Yuuri breaks away, but only to hug Phichit to his chest and hold him as the tears flow freely. He presses his lips to the top of Phichit's head and strokes his back in slow circles, making to move to wipe away the tears.

Phichit doesn't try to stem them. His heart is too full. They are tears of happiness and gratitude and grief, of regret for the years he will not have and of thankfulness for the ones he has been given, and they say everything that words cannot.

The flowers, for once, have the decency not to interrupt.

Only when the tears stop of their own accord does Yuuri brush his thumb over Phichit's cheeks to dry them. His own eyes are wet, but he is smiling.

Phichit pulls Yuuri to him and kisses his cheek, clumsy with longing, and breathes in the scent of Yuuri's hair, laced with the familiar hint of cinnamon.

When he looks up again, he catches sight of Victor leaning against the railings of the veranda, watching the two of them with a fond smile.

He nudges Yuuri. "Victor's waiting for you."

Yuuri glances over to where Victor is standing, and his face lights up the way it always does when he sees Victor. He turns back to Phichit. "But –"

"It's okay, Yuuri." Phichit hugs Yuuri to him again, but only briefly; if he holds him for too long he'll never let go. Reluctantly, he releases his grasp. "It's okay. Go to him."

Still hesitant, Yuuri sits up slowly. Phichit smiles at him with all the brightness he can muster, all the brightness that is left, and at last Yuuri gets to his feet. " _Fun dee na_ , Phichit," he says, and walks away towards the house, towards Victor.

…

In the first hazy hours of the old new year, Phichit coughs up petals for the last time.

He's curled up on the sofa in the living room when it happens. Someone has draped a blanket over him; he isn't shivering any more, but the chill is burrowing deeper, spreading through him like frost over a windowpane.

He glances across the room to where Yuuri and Victor are snuggled up together in one of the armchairs. Yuuri's head rests on Victor's shoulder, and Victor has his arms around him, his chest rising and falling to the same rhythm as Yuuri's. They look so peaceful, so perfect together that Phichit smiles to himself, and as he does so, the last few petals flutter into his lap.

There is no pain, no blood; just a catch in the back of his throat like a half-formed sob, then a handful of pink sweet pea petals and a sudden surge of tiredness.

He wonders whether he should wake Yuuri. But this might be the last peace Yuuri knows for a long time, and he can't bear to take that from him.

He calls out softly to his mother, who is by his side at once; she takes one look at him, at the petals in his lap, and knows.

_Don't cry,_  he begs her silently.  _Please don't cry._

And she doesn't, just crouches beside him and brushes his hair back from his forehead to feel his temperature. "I'm going to fetch Pôr and Somchai. Do you think you can hang on for me, baby?"

He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. Blind terror is groping for him in the dark, and it might catch him if he opens his mouth. If the world has to end, he wants at least to face that ending intact, not broken by fear.

His mother is gone only for a moment, and then she is back with his father and Somchai. He can't look at them, can't bear the helplessness in his father's eyes, the broken anger on Somchai's face. Instead, he looks up at his mother, who is still smiling her old reassuring smile as if he is a child again and this is just a sickness that will pass.

And just as she used to when he was a child, she begins to sing softly. It's a lullaby, a gentle, lilting song about a little bird that he hasn't heard in years.

The expanse of those years makes his chest ache. He has done so much already – and he is grateful for that – but there is so much more he had planned.

He glances across to Yuuri, sleeping in Victor's arms, and the ache subsides a little. Those plans will never be realised, but at least they won't be forgotten.  _He_  won't be forgotten.

Twenty years isn't enough; a thousand years wouldn't be enough for all the things he wanted to do, to be. But somehow this one moment out of millions – his family at his side, Yuuri sleeping peacefully just across from him – is, in its own small way, enough.

Enough for Phichit to close his eyes and let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thai expressions:  
> ai hee-ah - literally 'monitor lizard' (a very serious insult)  
> khun - title used before given names  
> kuay - dick  
> lôok - child (also used as a pronoun)  
> nóng - little brother  
> pêe - big brother  
> Pôr - Dad
> 
> Flower meanings:  
> Lily - transience (often associated with funerals)  
> Forget-me-not - remembrance after death  
> Pink camellia - longing  
> Sweet pea - farewell
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thai expressions (please correct me if I mess these up):  
> Rak teu - I love you  
> Fun dee na - Sweet dreams
> 
> Flower meanings (getting these from a bunch of different sources, sorry floriographers):  
> Red rose - I love you  
> Lotus - far from the one he loves
> 
> Thanks for reading - feedback is always appreciated!


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